Shrouded in Mists
by The True Sylvanas
Summary: Alliance forces have landed on a new and strange land, and already, they've learned just how dangerous this place can be. As night falls and monsters lurk in the shadows, Sergeant Blake Archer tries to lead his people to safety, while the claws of Doubt, Fear, Anger, and Hatred begin to close in...
1. Into the Fire

**DISCLAIMER: I do not now, nor have I ever, owned any of the characters or settings in the Blizzard gaming universe. I own only the characters I myself have created. All rights go to Blizzard Entertainment and its affiliates. **

**EDITOR'S NOTE: The characters I have created do not reflect my own personal opinions or beliefs; they are merely constructs useful in the telling of this story. I have not created any character for the purpose of inserting myself or any other individual into the story. They are merely characters. **

Start:

He was sick of it.

The constant, never ending torment of it all; the countless wins and losses, the regret, the burning desire to see it to its end...

Sergeant Blake Archer was sick of all of it.

Leaning against the rail of the gunship, the wind whipping in his face and the shouts of the crew below didn't help that feeling. It was all pointless; he and his men had been dispatched on yet another mission. Capture another objective. Slaughter a few dozen more enemy soldiers, all in the name of the Glorious Alliance.

Rolling his jaw to relax the stiffness there, Archer stood up and stretched his aching back. The armor he wore weighed heavily on his frame; he never had gotten quite used to wearing it day in and day out. As his name suggested, he came from a family of hunters. Simple folk, who knew that a bow and arrow were the way to survival. Not conquest or victory, but simple survival for the sake of home and family.

Light, how Archer missed those times...

"Deep in thought? Again?" A taunting voice called out, barely audible over the sound of the wind.

Archer grimaced and turned to face the woman, preparing himself for another round with the beast.

"Thinking is a bad habit of mine. Any chance I could tempt you into joining me? All the cool kids are doing it." Archer teased, feigning a dark and sultry attitude.

Sky Captain Rogers snorted and rolled her eyes, dispelling any ideas that she was the classy, proper lady that her parents had envisioned. With her signature sneer in place, she joined Archer at the rail, looking out over the vast sea below them.

Or rather, where the sea should have been.

For days now, the Skyfire had been flying through the densest fog anyone could remember seeing. Even the shores of Lordaeron or Darkshore couldn't hold a candle to the towering banks of mist they were soaring through, hoping and praying that if a mountain or wandering dragon were to happen by, the mists would part long enough for them to veer out of the way. If Archer was restless up on deck, he couldn't imagine the nerves of the pilots below them.

"I hate this." Rogers mumbled, more to herself than to the man standing beside her.

For a brief moment, Archer wondered if her sentiment matched his own. Was even this bloodthirsty hellion finally tiring of the game?

Rogers had more reason than most to hate their enemy. Her home been burnt to the ground, the very land beneath her feet plagued and scourged with the foul chemicals of the Forsaken. Her family had perished in the wake of that battle, their corpses subjected to unimaginable horrors as the survivors fled into the night. Caroline Rogers had been one of those survivors, spirited away as her life went up in flames.

She'd never forgiven herself for running away, Archer suspected.

But the illusion of change was washed away with her next remark. "We need to get back into the fight before its over."

"You think it will ever really be over?" Archer asked, shaking his head as he regarded the endless expanse of fog before them. They were looking to the rear of the massive vessel now, the gargantuan Gnomish built turbines carving a path through the swirling banks of gray.

"Of course." Rogers dismissed the thought as she had so many others. "But not before I kill my share of the green-skinned bastards."

Forcing a smile, Archer fought the urge to say what was really on his mind. After all, it wasn't behavior becoming of an officer in the Stormwind Marines. He had his men looking up at him; he couldn't afford a single moment of weakness. And after all, what was weakness but the hesitation to push forward? Always forward, never looking back, never wondering why until the enemy was nothing more than a bad taste in the mouth, ready to be washed away with some cheap ale and a patriotic song.

Yes, Archer was sick of it. But this was a sickness with no cure besides the obvious one. He'd take these doubts to the grave; it would be better than voicing them and disgracing himself, his unit, and the name of Archer.

"For the Alliance..." Archer muttered darkly, commenting on his own twisted train of thought.

Thinking he was speaking to her, Rogers grinned and nodded fervently. "Say it proud, brother. Come on, let's see what the..."

Her thought unfinished, a sudden shout from the decks below grabbed their attention.

"Land! Land ho!"

Ripping her gaze away from the rail, Rogers practically threw herself down the short stairway that led down to the main deck. All traces of her casual conversation vanished in a moment as she barked orders.

"All hands report to your stations! Helm, set a course at half steam and prepare for maneuvering! Lookout, what do you see?"

As men and women raced around the suddenly seething Skyfire, Archer joined the fray just as the woman in the forward observation post reported back.

"I see giant stone pillars, almost like those of Thousand Needles, with significant foliage and wildlife!" The high pitched voice of Greely Coggle called back, an over-complicated telescope held to her unblinking eye. One of the many Gnomes aboard, Greely had some of the largest and most penetrating eyes Archer had ever known. Her appointment to Lookout suited her perfectly; on her off hours, she would dazzle the crew with masterful paintings of the things she'd managed to catch a glimpse of over the day. Lately, though, those canvases had boasted of nothing by gray fog.

Archer suspected Greely's dry spell was officially over.

"Wait!" Greely's voice called out again, cutting off another order from Rogers. "Ships! I see horde ships below us!"

All at once, the blood drained from Roger's face, and a wicked grin formed on her sharp features. Her voice took on a new edge now, that old blood thirst raging hot and fresh as it always did.

"All hands! Battle stations! Let's go to war!"

From far below, curious eyes watched the scene unfold.

A giant wooden vessel, like the kind he'd seen washed up on the shores, was flying through the air! How, he didn't know, but there was no doubt that it was doing so. Like a Flying Serpent, it gracefully breached the fog barrier, a swarm of activity on her deck. In a heartbeat, it had spotted the visitors already on the shore.

With flags the color of blood and axes not meant for cutting wood, the visitors had come in the night and claimed this land for their own. Trees were ripped apart and the ground torn asunder as a fortress rose up seemingly from nowhere, and 'Garosh'ar Stronghold' was born. A natural harbor that once hosted celebrations and humble fishing now lent its grace and beauty to the ugly machine of war.

Tattered iron vessels with sails as red as a morning sun sat in the harbor, an unsung prayer for them to sail home carried away in the wind. Still they remained, still the visitors carved their way through the land that he called home.

And now, more visitors had arrived.

Letting the bamboo bend back into place, Cho sighed deeply, shaking his head in sorrow. There was no doubt now; no lingering questions to be answered but one.

The Mists had parted; this was the inescapable truth.

But what would these visitors bring to their shores?

"All starboard guns, return fire!" Rogers shouted, the boom of cannons drowning her voice as soon as it left her throat. Around her, explosions rocked the deck as cannon fire from the waves below peppered the armor of their great vessel. Timbers splintered and cries screamed out in the morning air as the wounded were carried below deck.

"Captain!" Archer braced his shoulder against a crane, stopping its fall until the unlucky crewman was out of its way. With a comparatively meek crash, it settled to the deck and Archer pushed forward.

"We're not going to win this!"

Roger's head snapped around at the remark, a dangerous light in her eyes. "What was that, Marine?"

Waving a hand at the gleaming spikes of the Horde fortress below them, Archer had a light of his own burning in his eyes. "One ship against all of those cannons is suicide! We need to fall back!"

Rogers actually laughed as their own guns answered for her, sending another rain of lead down on the enemies below.

"You should know me better than that by now!" Rogers shot back, bracing herself against the doorway leading below. The sounds of engines grinding echoed up from the dark belly of the ship as the helm put them through another grueling banking maneuver.

"Unfortunately..." Archer hissed. Shaking his head in frustration, he managed to lock eyes with Rogers again. "Then at least let my men do what we do best!"

With a predatory grin, Rogers nodded and signaled one of the Gnomes across the deck.

"Gyrocopters, now! I want our birds in the air!"

Eyes wide, the man nodded energetically and leapt into action. A cobbled together control panel spit sparks as it was dialed up with a seemingly random series of commands. Lights flashed and a siren screeched out a warning as the deck below their feet shuddered to life.

Between the hatch that led below and the iron eagle that tipped their bow, the deck plates sunk a few feet into the superstructure before sliding back into their frame. The Skyfire banked to port to shield the delicate machinery below from stray fire, and the wondrous flying machines slowly rose on cranes to see the morning light.

"Marines! Battle stations!" Archer roared, taking a running leap into the gaping maw in front of him. Arms flailing in the smoke filled air, he landed hard on the catwalk below, already running for the nearest Gyropcopter. A Dwarf stood nearby, completing the machine's preflight as fast as he could.

"Yer good tae go! Get out there, champ!" The man shouted, holding up a grimy thumb as Archer climbed into the saddle.

Not bothering to shout over the wind and the sound of the engine roaring to life, Archer returned the gesture and slid a pair of goggles over his eyes. Adjusting the Gnomecorder mic over his mouth, he tapped the 'speak' button.

"Condor 1 to all units; up and out. Repeat, all Condors, up and out!"

Around him, men and women of all races raced to their Gyrocopters, flashing grins at him as they landed in the saddles.

With one final roar of the engine, Archer coaxed his machine up into the smoky air, clearing the deck of the Skyfire in seconds. Now free of the claustrophobic hangar, he shook his head to clear his thoughts.

The cannons; he needed to focus on the cannons that were chewing apart the Skyfire. There would be ground fire, obstacles, and an unknown terrain. The worst possible scenario for a Gyro strike, but it was the only way forward.

Swallowing hard, Archer leaned on the control stick, and the wind rushed past his already numb face. Behind him, a swarm of Gyro's soon erupted from the belly of the Skyfire, coming into a loose formation as they did. All of his men were trained pilots, but that thought didn't dismiss the gut churning worry that not all of those soldiers were coming back today.

Refocusing on the ground below, Archer narrowly avoided a round of cannon fire from one of the spiked towers that ringed the fortress. Banking left, he held down the trigger on his control stick, and the chain gun in the nose of the little craft sputtered out a reply.

Splinters and a shower of blood silenced the gun station that had fired on him, and he soared past the tower with his engine burning hot.

Below him, peons were racing to bring ammo, put out fires, and generally run amok. Towering carts of explosives were being brought out of warehouses, which made for a tempting target. Sure enough, rockets fired from above him sent a few mushroom clouds into the already smoke filled air.

The Horde wasn't prepared for this; they'd been caught completely off guard. It would be an easy victory...

Banking sharply to miss another tower, Archer locked his sights on an armored Shredder pulling another cart forward. Flipping a switch, one of his own rockets shot out to take the Goblin's creation head on. Flames and shredded iron erupted, and Archer pulled up to avoid the shrapnel. Gaining some altitude, he had a perfect view of the coastline of this strange land.

The Horde fortress, now burning, sat in a natural bay. Flanked on one side by a narrow river with a wide delta, tall forests with strange trees crept up on the beach from all other angles. Gentle waves washed ashore, bringing debris from the raging battle, but not all of the boats in the sand looked Orchish in design. His eye was drawn farther into the trees, and he inhaled sharply at the sight.

"Captain, this is Sergeant Archer. I'm seeing signs of native structures ashore!"

"_No time. Focus on the task at hand._" Rogers snapped, the sound of pain tainting her voice.

Throwing aside all other thoughts, Archer set his jaw and dove lower once again. Two other Gyro's fell into formation behind him, and three Condors unleashed a deadly rain of bullets and rockets on anything that moved.

Men, women, animals, machines; nothing was safe from the rain of death. No sooner would a peon step out of shelter than a bullet would cave in his chest. A Goblin would emerge from the doomed wreck of a Shredder, only to to be engulfed in flames. A Troll shaman, trying to contain the blaze, would be washed away in a cloud of dirt and shrapnel, not even a corpse left behind to tell of his existence.

It was Hell.

But war always was, and at least this time, the Hellscape wasn't his homeland. His men weren't the ones being cut to pieces, his ships weren't the ones sinking below the bloody waves. And for today, that was good enough.

Pulling up, he tapped at his radio again.

"All Condors, break off from the fortress and focus fire on the ships in the harbor. Let's finish this."

A few scattered replies were heard, and all of the remaining Condors withdrew from the flames and headed for open water. A few were missing, but that was to be expected. Whether it was target fixation in the pilot or sheer luck from cannons on the ground, no Gyro wing ever came back at full strength. It was only a roll of the dice that separated Archer from those that had fallen.

Sometimes, he practically begged those dice to roll against him. But it seemed today wasn't that day.

Gunning his engine, he led the charge against the few ships left firing. Tattered red sails were shrouded in gun smoke, while oil seeped out from damaged hulls. Alliance vessels had started to convert to steam back during the Northrend Campaign; it seemed that Horde ships were following suit. Engines would replace sails, oil would overpower wind, and the churning engine of progress would spit out yet more tools to slaughter men. Such was the way of war.

But today, that engine of progress had left Archer an opportunity. Oil was flammable, and the decks of the Orchish Dreadnought were soaked in it. A few sparks would be all it took.

Firing his chain gun, Archer focused on the metal barrels and steel mast in the center of the ship. Sure enough, after only a few rounds the deck was engulfed in flames, with screaming sailors jumping into the water to avoid the heat.

A few more rockets sealed the vessel's fate, and the Condors moved on to the next target.

This ship was a little wiser than her sister; banking to starboard, she showed her guns and let loose deadly barrage, which in turn shrouded the iron hull in smoke.

Three Gyro's jerked in midair and dove into the waves, sending another nail through Archer's heart. Grimacing in anger, he turned what rockets he had left on the defiant Dreadnought, and the other Condors followed suit. With a wave of heat and light, a dozen Dwarven rockets burst against the ship's hull, and she was literally blown apart. Chunks of iron and flesh shot into the air.

Yanking the control stick back, Archer directed his Gyro back into the sky, surveying the damage wrought in less than an hour.

The Orchish fortress: burnt to the ground.

The Horde ships in the harbor: sunk, or blown to pieces.

The Horde ground forces: slaughtered and scattered.

But there had been casualties. Six Gyro's out of twenty weren't flying anymore, their pilot's either dead or stranded on the ground. In a normal engagement, those were failing odds. But today, it was just enough to pass for survival.

Steering back towards the Skyfire, Archer's heart sunk as he saw another casualty he hadn't counted on.

The Skyfire was sinking.

"Captain Rogers, come in!" Archer shouted into his radio, hoping he'd be heard over the wind.

"_Condors, do not return to nest! Repeat, do not return to nest!" _

"Captain, what's your status?" Archer asked carefully, banking his Gyro away from the burning carcass of the Skyfire. His home for the past three months, he could almost feel her pain as she fell towards the ocean, a few feet at a time. Her mighty turbines were churning for all they were worth, but number three was spinning free, and number one was hanging on only by a few cables. The support arm had been shattered, and liquid fuel rained down to add to the fire already running along the ocean's surface.

Burning holes in her hull belched smoke, and at least three cannons had been ripped free and tossed overboard to save weight. Frantic crews spotted Archer's Condors, and even from where he hovered, he could see them waving him off.

Skyfire was going down, and she was going down hard.

"_Status? Hell, I've been worse." _Rogers laughed. "_I've got a piece of Deck 3 in my arm, some of Deck 2 in my thigh, and my XO is dead. Skyfire can't maintain her altitude, but we're going down over the water. Going to try to run her aground so she doesn't sink, no way her hull is going to hold water..." _

Archer could hear her heart breaking through the phony bravado. Skyfire was her ship; her baby. Never a mother herself, that mess of steel and timber was the closest thing she had, and she was watching it die. A final puff of smoke, and the great engines stopped pumping at last. Skyfire touched down on the water with enough force to knock everyone aboard off their feet, and equipment rolled free on the deck.

"Condors!" Archer shouted into his mic, diving steeply towards the waves. "Get your asses down there, now!"

He needn't have wasted his breath. Every pilot still in the air was already tearing through the sky to get to get to the wreck, hearts pounding and eyes wide at the sight. Jerking their noses up at the last second, they narrowly avoided impacting the shattered deck like so many arrows into a deer hide.

As his struts touched down, Archer leapt out of the saddle and made for the nearest crewman, on his stomach and bleeding heavily from a head wound. Throwing the man's arm over his shoulder, he dragged them both a step closer to his Gyro.

"Sir, we'll never get them all out!" One of his men, Corporal Bates, waved at the ocean crashing against the hull. The gentle waves were disturbed by the behemoth Skyfire crashing into them, and oil-slicked waves were already starting to creep up her sides. The Skyfire was sinking, and when that water hit her red-hot engines...

"We can try!" Archer shouted back, throwing the unconscious man over the saddle of his Gyro. Turning to survey the rest of the deck, he spotted a familiar face rising to her feet.

Hooves planted and tail swishing angrily, Maara Taaln was gritting with her teeth with the exertion of a spell.

"Way... ahead of you..."

Her accent was thick enough to cut with a knife, but her mastery of Common was better than some of Archer's own men. Brilliant purple eyes flashing with power and hands seeming to grab onto reality itself, a portal was soon carved out of the smoky air. With a flash of arcane energy, it opened and a clear view of the shoreline appeared on the other side.

"How far will that get us?" Archer demanded, again slinging the unconscious man over his shoulder.

"Not far! Hurry, I can't hold it forever!" Maara warned, tossed the loose hair out of her eyes. Blue blood was running from her mouth, and at least one of her pristine white teeth was now embedded in the wooden planks of the deck. Ignoring the pain, she focused all of her will and power on that one thought:

Escape.

"Corporal Bates, get our people through that portal!" Archer ordered, already making a dash for the lower sections. "When they're clear, get our birds in the air!"

"Aye sir!" Bates grabbed a Dwarven woman in his arms and dragged her closer to the portal, noticing immediately that the woman was now missing the fingers on her left hand. Blood ran slick on the shattered planks, and screams were starting to tear through the air.

Ignoring all of the above, Archer dove down the wide stairway, his eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom below. Narrowly avoiding a Night Elf man leading a pack of survivors out, he tried to see just how many people were left in the sinking wreck.

Skyfire had four decks, not counting the wheelhouse on the main deck. That was clearing fast, now that Maara had the portal open. It appeared that deck two was mostly undamaged; besides the exposed Gyrocopter bay, it held their storage lockers and bunks, which of course had been empty after the action ashore.

Continuing down the stairway, he found an altogether different scene on the next level. Deck three had been the main gun deck; cannons and powder were everywhere, and this was where most of the enemy fire had been concentrated.

Blood and corpses were everywhere, and Archer stumbled over three bodies before he found a survivor. Rolling him over and bringing the human to his senses, he sent him towards the stairway as he heard a cry for help.

Peering through the smoke and haze, Archer spotted a Gnome woman and several other gunners crouched around one cannon in particular, cries of panic echoing down the deck.

"Over here! Light help us, over here! He's trapped!"

Hopping over a fallen deck strut, Archer slid on his knees to where the once shiny cannon had tipped on its side. As he saw what was underneath it, his heart sank.

A Worgen, one of the newest allies of the Alliance, was lying on his back with the thousand pound weapon lying across his stomach. Blood ran out of his muzzle, and his eyes were glazed over. The worst part:

He was still alive.

"Go... Up on deck, we're evacuating. Go!" Archer ripped one of the Dwarves away, and another followed quickly. The Gnomish girl, however, wouldn't be moved. Tugging at the weapon for all she was worth, the pink haired woman had tears running down her soot stained face.

"I won't leave him!"

"I'll get him! Go!" Archer had to pick the woman up off of her feet and throw her over the fallen beam before she would leave, and even then, the Dwarves had a fight on their hands to get her the rest of the way.

Turning to the fallen Worgen, Archer fought the urge to throw up as he knelt beside his head.

"Soldier... I am so sorry."

Swallowing with a dry tongue, the Worgen blinked rapidly. "Don't... Don't say that, sir." His accent was thick as ever, and over the various alarms, Archer had to work to hear him. "I'm not sorry. Not sorry 'tall. I did my duty; wouldn't have it no other way."

Archer ran a bloody hand down his face and fought for the right words to say. There was no way he was going to move that gun, and by the blood running out from under one of the wheels, this man wasn't going to make it even if an Ogre came along and threw the cannon into the ocean.

He was dying.

"Damn straight." Archer said hoarsely. "You did your duty, and then some."

"I'm going home now, Sergeant." The man said with a faint smile. "Home to mum and dad. Do you..." He held up a hand to the dim light, examining the claws and fur there. "Do you think they'll recognize me?"

"Recognize you?" Archer demanded, tears flowing freely now. "Hell, they'll have a whole parade waiting for you. Big band, dancing girls, the whole thing."

"Sounds... Sounds nice..."

With one final wheeze, the man was gone. Archer gently closed his eyes one last time, tearing himself away from the body, his heart in his throat. He'd lost men before; he'd lost some today, even.

That didn't make it any easier.

Stumbling below to the final deck, an intense heat washed over him like one of the waves desperate to come through the hull. Coughing out a lungful of smoke, Archer made it down to the engine room, shouting for all he was worth for the crew there to evacuate.

Those that were still alive happily followed the order, but one limping figure stood fast. Before the smoke and steam parted, Archer already knew who he'd find manning the controls.

"Captain! Now!"

Rogers shook her head, a long curl of brown hair falling free. "Can't. That water hits this engine, Skyfire goes up like a bottle rocket."

Archer looked below the metal grates of the catwalk where they stood, noticing just how much water was spilling through the cracks in Skyfire's hull, quickly filling the bilge and overflowing into the crawlspaces.

Airships were designed to float on calm water, they were only sent skyward when the proper enchantments and engines had been put in place. In an emergency, they could land on the water as the Skyfire had, but doing so after sustaining critical damage and going into an ocean?

No ship was designed to handle that. Skyfire was gone, and her Captain was about to be as well.

"And what in the Hell do you think you're going to do to stop that?" Archer demanded, joining her at the controls.

"Vent the heat a little at a time, so the explosion isn't as bad. You know, captain's prerogative?"

Archer shook his head at the attempt at a joke, grabbing the woman by her shoulders. "We need you! _I_ still need you! Now are you going to get your ass up those stairs, or am I carrying you?"

Maybe it was the fire in Archer's eyes, the pain in his voice, or the fact that engine's alarms started shrieking just a little louder, but Rogers gave in. Relaxing noticeably in his grip, she let him guide her away from the red hot steel, towards the stairs leading up.

What started as a hesitant walk turned into a desperate sprint as the two ran, the one leaning on the other as a splinter the size of a steak knife dislodged itself from Rogers' leg. Practically carrying her, Archer made his way towards portal so far above them.

As the sound of the alarms died, the pair only ran faster. Electricity was down, which meant the generator had flooded. The only thing left was the main engine...

"Go go go!" Archer screamed, taking the steps three at a time.

Rogers, hopping along with her other leg hanging uselessly behind her, was giddy with blood loss. "Like we were in danger of stopping..."

Finally, the pair cleared the lower decks, sunlight washing over them again. Sprinting across the now empty deck, Archer threw Rogers through the waning portal with the last of his strength. Seeing her on the other side, he stepped around the razor thin edge of the hole in space, grabbing Maara in a very ungentlemanly way and hauling them both through the back of the portal.

As the Mage's connection was lost, the portal snapped close, and the two of them landed in each other's arms on the oil-slicked sand a mile away.

All eyes turned to the Skyfire as she finally gave up the ghost, a world-ending explosion rocking them to their cores. The shattered hulk of the Skyfire was lifted out of the water, a towering plume of smoke shooting into the sky, before the wreck of iron and timber crashed back down and sank below the waves.

Still, the water was tauntingly clear and calm, as if unbothered by the carnage it had just beheld. The smoke was clearing with the morning breeze, and the sun shone unflinchingly on, as if it couldn't care less about the horror unfolding in plain sight.

No sooner had the explosion ended than the screams began anew, jerking Archer back to reality.

Ensuring that Maara was more shaken than injured, he rolled to his feet and started checking on the various injuries around him. Triage was key; separate the critically injured from those that could bandage themselves and walk it off. Today, there was far more of the former than the latter...

Amid the screams and shouts of panic, a single voice called out, starting low and growing in power. The voices were silent as they listened to the strange song, and soon they could all make out the shining form of Chloe Ward, Priestess of the Light.

Her bloodstained robes clung to her frame as she levitated high above the ground, arms out and rigid with strain, mouth open and voice echoing down the shoreline. Her eyes burned with holy fire, and the very sound of her voice seemed to touch each and every one of them.

Waves of light emanated from her, cascading out in waves that washed over the injured, soothing their pain and washing away the blood from their wounds. As Archer watched, a Draenei man clutching a nasty gut wound relaxed noticeably, the light coming to rest on his abdomen.

The melody of her strange song came to a high point, and with a final gasp of power and light, Ward dropped down to gracefully land on her feet, drained from the effort.

As soon as the prayer ended, the cries of pain resumed. The light faded from the Draenei man's stomach, but instead of the gaping wound gushing blood, there was a noticeably smaller wound. The power of the Light was something that always made Archer stop and stare; today, it was no less awe inspiring.

Those that were dying had been brought back from the brink; those that were in dire need of care had been given a few more minutes. Some who had been only slightly wounded were now fully healed, with no signs of blood gore in sight. It was a miracle, but as Archer well knew, miracles had a price.

Moving between the bodies on the sand, Archer made his way to the Priestess wearily.

"Ward to the rescue, as usual." Archer joked, kneeling beside the woman and placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. Her skin was paler than usual, her eyes struggling to stay open.

"Pfft, as if." Ward shot back. "And now I'm about as useful as you at an Officer's Ball."

Archer could only grin at her poor attempt at humor. Ward was in her early twenties, a rising star in the world of the Light and its champions. Daughter of a Paladin, head of her class, and deemed purest of heart by the aging High Priest of Northshire Abby, Chloe Ward was the poster girl for the Stormwind Priesthood.

Unfortunately, Ward herself had never gotten that memo. Awkward, clumsy, and surprisingly immature at times, Ward was known to have a massive crush on Archer, which his men loved bringing up. He saw her as something close to a little sister, looking out for her when she inevitably got herself into trouble.

From the knife fight with Caitlyn the Blade in Booty Bay to the 'Trial of Style Incident', Ward had a nose for the strangest and stupidest messes Archer had ever seen. But in the end, her power in the Light couldn't be denied anymore than her girlish beauty. Any man who saw her couldn't help but stare, but most smiled and moved on when they heard her high-pitched voice try to pronounce Dwarven curses.

Now, however, her Prayer had drained what energy she had left in her, and she sank heavily into the sand. Archer stripped off his useless breastplate and wedged it in the sand for her to lean on before moving on to the other members of the crew.

Skyfire boasted a crew of two hundred, besides the compliment of twenty five marines. Enough for engagements and surgical strikes, her mission had been classified above the highest levels of secrecy. From the hints dropped and obvious clues along the way, Archer could guess at the power players involved, but even he didn't know any names or places for certain.

What he did know was that a ship carrying a VIP had gone missing in this region, and Horde forces were suspected in the disappearance.

Looking across the bloody sand to the burning fortress, Archer could say with some certainty that there were, in fact, Horde forces present.

"Damn the King." Archer swore, hoping a moment later that no one had heard him. Shaking the thought, he made his way back to the still prone Sky Captain Rogers.

Lying on her back on a stretched out cloak, her wounds had been reduced by Ward's prayer, but she was still bad off. Blood loss and shock kept her from jumping up and barking orders, but only just.

"I suppose I have an 'I told you so' coming." Rogers said weakly, glaring up at Archer as he approached.

Archer's rage burst onto the surface again as if he right back in the heat of the fight, and he had to turn away to hide the expression on his face. Running his fingers through his hair, he nearly spit with his response.

"No, actually, you don't, Captain. I'm not allowed to be so petty right now, because I have to worry about keeping all of us alive. As much as I would like to sit here and discuss how your stupidity and recklessness has put us in danger, I have other fish to fry."

"Watch your tone." Rogers growled, shifting her position to sit up on one elbow. A combat medic quickly motioned for her to lie back down, but she ignored his plea.

"Or what?" Archer said with a dangerous laugh. "You'll throw me in the brig?"

Both of the officers took a long breath, the tension palpable enough for the low conversation around them to die out completely.

Aware of the stares they were drawing, Archer changed his tact.

"You're too injured to assume command and your second in command is dead. Protocol says that I'm in command until you're recovered. Our ship is gone..." Archer couldn't help but look out to sea at the spot where the Skyfire had rested for those harrowing moments. There was nothing left on the surface but oil and a bitter memory.

"...And apparently, we're in enemy territory. As such, I'm taking a scouting party into that Horde fortification. While we're gone, Corporal Bates will assume command here. Maara!" Shouting over the heads of the crowd, he spotted the Draenei woman's head perking up.

"Can you open up a portal to Stormwind from here?"

"Short or long answer?" Maara asked, forcefully casual despite Archer's obviously short temper.

Biting his tongue, Archer relaxed slightly. "Short."

"No." Maara said simply. "And I'm coming with you."

Archer shook his head and turned to face the woman. "Negative. You're staying here with the others."

Raising one thin eyebrow, Maara rose to her 'feet' again, her spiraling horns and jet black hair still somehow perfectly colored and styled despite all they'd been through. Archer suspected it to be magic, and wondered for the hundredth time how much of the beautiful woman's appearance could be attributed to spell work.

"The long answer? I need reagents and a source of power to open a portal anywhere but somewhere else on this blasted shore. If the Horde had those kind of reagents or power sources lying around in there, you'd miss them. I'm coming with you." Maara repeated, not an ounce of hesitation in her voice.

Archer, used to the constant chess game of wits, had his comeback ready and waiting. "And if the Horde had those kinds of resources around, why wouldn't they have opened a portal to Orgrimmar for reinforcements?"

"Maybe they have." Maara pointed out simply. "Or maybe they're honor-bound idiots who don't know what they have. Either way, you need me. And remember, I'm a civilian assigned to your 'Skyfire', but not a part of your Alliance Army. You can't give me orders."

And there it was; the sloppy stalemate that had ended too many of their arguments. Sighing, Archer shook his head and motioned for her to join him.

"Fine. Bates, you're in charge. Circle the wagons and keep and eye out for hostiles from any direction. Second squad, you're with me. Skyboss, what's the situation with our Condors?" Archer asked, turning his attention to the soot-stained Dwarf nearby.

Still attending to his precious Gyrocopters, the man didn't seem to notice the chaos behind him anymore than Archer had noticed the Gyro's parked in formation around their group of survivors.

"Fuel's in the red for most of them, and our backup tanks went up with the Skyfire." Skyboss Darkstout replied heavily, running a caring hand down a scorch mark on one of the Gyro's. "If we combine what fuel we have left, I can give you two or three Condors at most. Ammo is another story; you blasted Marines are always so damned trigger happy..."

Archer ignored the usual level of derision Darkstout reserved for careless pilots. His heart was in the right place, but he was happy to tell anyone who'd listen that he preferred the Gnomish built Gyro's over their air headed pilot's any day. Archer suspected it was just a layer of humor to lighten the eternally tense mood surrounding the flight crew.

"So, scouting only. Fine, you've got as long as it takes for my men and I to get back. After that, I want three Condors in the air for a scouting mission in the immediate area. Something tells me that the Horde are going to have more up their sleeve than we've seen."

"Oh, aye." Darkstout muttered. "And would you like me to wipe your ass for you, too? Maybe draw a up a warm bath and rub your delicate feet...?"

Archer walked away before he heard half of the man's snide remark, knowing that all was right between them. The day Darkstout was kind and respectful, Archer would know the Hour of Twilight had come.

As he watched, Second Squad was forming up nicely, their training kicking in as their squad leader barked orders in a mechanical way. Weapons were checked and re-checked, armor was strapped in place, and grunts of 'yes sir' were soon heard.

Skyfire had a compliment of twenty five Marines, formed into two squads of ten with five replacements. With the eight casualties in the firefight, they were still three short in First Squad, and all thoughts of an easy assignment were thrown aside. These were veteran soldiers, and with the cold-shower of a first engagement, they were all ready for Hell or high water.

Taking a rifle that was tossed to him, Archer slipped the strap over his neck and check to make sure his cartridge pouch was still in place. Crafted of fine leather and enchanted to be water resistant, it held close to a hundred rounds of expertly crafted Thorium slugs meant for puncturing armor and tearing through flesh of any kind.

Once, long ago, the Alliance and Horde had met on the battle field with only swords and spells for weapons. The War of the Ancients especially had been a savage ordeal, Archer had heard, with the most primitive of tools used to slaughter millions across the face of Azeroth. Since then, the constant wars between the Orcs and Humans in the First War, to the scattered blood baths of the great Cataclysm, weaponry had only advanced.

Now, in the present day, Archer's men carried the finest rifles Alliance engineers could make. Elementium barrels, Ironwood stocks, and precious stones acting as the lenses for their scopes spit out the dense Thorium rounds, with lightweight chain mail armor protecting the soldiers that carried them. Gone were the days of swords and shields, axes and staves, but the memory lived on. Each of them carried a short saber for close engagements, but it had been years since the things had seen any action besides chopping dinner, or shaving drunk Marines on a dare.

As the decorated Sergeant of this attachment, Archer's own uniform and armor were more traditional and over the top than usual, with shining silver breastplates and and Imperial Plate helmets, the polished suit of armor that Archer wore was little more than a constant pain in his ass.

Shedding most of it, Archer now wore a pair of fine leather pants, a pair of Excelsior boots a shady Goblin in Booty Bay had once made for him, and the tailored silk shirt that all Stormwind officers wore. No helmet, no heavy belt or thick gloves... he'd never pass an inspection. Thankfully, the nearest superior officer was an ocean away.

On his suggestion, most of Second Squad shed their some of their own armor. The sun, at first pleasantly warm, was getting sweltering as the day wore on, and the Horde fortress would only be hotter with the fires raging inside. As much as they might need the protection, passing out from heat stroke would be far more dangerous than any steel the enemy could throw.

At least in theory.

"Alright, here's the plan." Archer said, loud enough for all of his men to hear. Maara soon joined them, her Arcanist's robes thrown aside for the standard Skyfire uniform: a white linen shirt and a pair of brown linen pants, cut to the knee for comfort. Her bare hooves needed no shoe, and the only weapon she carried was a spelled blade tucked into her silk belt. She looked ready to pose for a Goblin gentlemen's magazine, which the male members of his team couldn't help but notice.

"That stronghold is still a potential threat, and the troops inside could cause hell for our people if they attack when we aren't ready. As such, we're going to hit them first." Archer explained, snapping their focus back to the task at hand.

"Our second objective is to locate reagents and power sources that our resident Mage might use to evac our sorry asses out of here. She will be staying with our formation at all times." Archer ordered, his gaze resting solely on a smiling Maara.

"I know we've all just been through Hell, but remember. We're Marines." Archer looked to each man and woman in his team in turn now, his voice turning serious. "This is what we do. Move out!"

All ten of the Marines saluted crisply before snapping back to marching position, their rifles out and ready for action. Leading the charge himself, Archer held his own weapon at hip level, barrel pointing down and eyes scanning their destination carefully.

"Nice speech." Maara snickered, keeping pace with him as they marched through the sand. The terrain soon turned to a loose grass that felt and smelled just a little different than the stuff Archer was used to.

"Nice outfit. Who dressed you, a twelve year old Goblin boy?" Archer shot back, not taking his eyes off of the fortifications ahead.

"Oh? Are you... distracted?" Maara teased, rolling back her shoulders and puffing out her chest as much as possible.

"Nope. I might be, though, when there's an ax buried in your rib cage."

"Try it." Maara, suddenly serious, walked sideways and held out her arms in invitation.

Sensing what she was playing at, Archer reached out his hand, and sure enough, before his fingers touched the linen of her shirt, a wall of ice closed around his fingers. Pulling back his hand, the ice vanished from sight instantly.

Before Archer could get off another witty comeback, Maara's eyes darted to the edge of the grass, her attention somewhere else entirely.

Archer held up a hand for the squad to stop, his own eyes taking in the sight of what lay before them. As his men came to a rest and fanned out, gasps and growls escaped their lips.

The land was scorched beyond recognition. Grass had been burnt out of the soil, trees were twisted out of shape and hollowed out by some kind of horrific insect that Archer sincerely hoped he'd never see in person. The very ground beneath their feet felt violated, right up to the line in the sand where the Orcish walls into the sky. Twisted black metal, blood red banners, and the smell of burning oil all told them that they were in the right place. The Horde had made camp here.

"Animals..." Maara hissed, a twisted memory forming in her mind's eye. "It's like Hellfire Peninsula!"

"Fel Magic." Archer confirmed, knowing the sight all too well. "It feeds off of living things; any living things. If this is what it did to the plant life out here, it'll be worse inside. Eyes open!" Archer shouted the order back to the rest of his men, and they wearily stepped out of the grass and onto the scorched soil beyond.

How they'd missed this from the air, Archer didn't know. On some level, he'd known that the area surrounding the front gates of the fortress had been barren, but his focus had been on the harbor. Even if he had noticed it, he would never have seen it all from the air.

Down to the very pebbles of sand under their boots, the land had been cleansed of life.

"Sir! That's Condor 13!"

A sudden shout from one of the Humans behind him made Archer stop, and all eyes went to the scorched hunk of steel the man had spotted.

Wordlessly, Archer ran to the downed Gyro with the rest of the squad hot on his heels, rifles up and ready in case of an ambush. It was the Horde's style; bait the trap with the injured enemies that had been captured. It worked far too often.

This time, however, a different story was told by the burnt out aircraft. The saddle was empty, making Archer sigh in relief. The engine was scuttled, which meant the pilot had survived long enough to follow protocol. Afterwards, though, the hard ground the Gyro had landed on prevent any tracks from forming.

"Any sign of the pilot?" Maara asked, a hint of hope in her voice.

"He's alive." Archer confirmed, pointing to the missing survival pack that should have rested on the rear of the craft. "Where he went, I don't know."

"I do!" One of the Marines, a woman with a vicious scar over her eye, nodded at the towering walls that were now close enough to touch.

"Easy, soldier." Archer rose to his feet again and slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Save it for the enemy." To the rest of them, he motioned to a hole in the iron wall a few yards farther east, where one of their rockets had impacted. It was more than large enough to accommodate them, and was under some amount of cover from the tower beside it.

All twelve of them moved with a new sense of urgency, making it to the breach in a few seconds, carefully peering around the burnt steel with rifles braced to their shoulders. Satisfied that the immediate area was clear, they made it through and into the fortress square.

Orcish design had always fascinated and horrified Archer on some level. Steel and stone were used like frosting and sprinkles on the most stomach-turning creation from Stormwind's bakery. Spikes, razor sharp and jutting out at all angles, were everywhere. Facing in and out, up and down, it was like they were expecting an attack from flying Kodo's.

But as Archer's men continued deeper inside the courtyard, it became obvious that this was no normal poor design choice. Black blood was stained over the tips of the spikes, dripping into pools here and there.

The ground inside was as desecrated as it was outside, with the now unbearable sun baking everything in sight. In the middle of the courtyard, a gigantic statue stood of an unmistakable figure.

"Pig..." The woman with the scar, Rifleman Stacy Quinn, had grown up in Theramore.

The city that Garrosh Hellscream, Warchief of the Horde, had burned to the ground.

His ugly features stood proudly, carved in stone for all to see. Around the base of the statue, flowers, weapons, and even piles of rotting food had been left as if in offering.

"They were worshiping it..." Maara gasped, her eyes taking in the sight unblinking.

"Eyes on the target." Archer reminded them all, including himself.

The dozen or so towers that lined the walls of the fortress had all taken a beating, with one or two still standing. One of those was the one covering the entrance they'd used, while the other was across the courtyard. Several smaller buildings dotted the scorched ground here and there, their purpose a mystery to the Alliance forces now creeping around them. Rubble and burning debris littered the ground in odd spurts, while the one thing missing from the scene continued to bother Archer.

Bodies. There weren't any bodies to be seen, despite the devastation that Archer himself had doled out. What had the Horde done with their dead, and where had they gone? So far, no one had challenged their presence, and there were no signs of life anywhere. Granted, the sinking and evacuation of the Skyfire had taken time, and Archer hadn't exactly sprinted his men here.

Still, it was suspicious. Where could they have gone?

As they passed the monument to Hellscream, a sudden cry of rage was heard from Maara. As Archer whirled around, a burning meteor was conjured in midair before being thrown at the statue's base. Slamming into one of the stone legs, the grinning Hellscream toppled over and shattered, sending burning stone flying in all directions.

Once the dust had cleared, a still simmering Maara strode through the rubble, bits of frozen pebbles falling around her. Her shield charm had done its job; Maara herself wasn't injured in the slightest.

"Why, thank you." Archer snapped angrily. "I was just thinking I wanted to alert every enemy soldier for ten miles to our position."

Maara ignored his tone, her eyes looking anywhere else. "You are welcome."

Growling and rolling his shoulders, Archer continued on, headed for the biggest structure inside the walls. A massive keep sat in the very center of the courtyard, in line with the toppled statue and nearly as tall as the guard towers. Its spikes were the filthiest of all, black blood fairly painting the outside of the structure. What monster had done the bleeding, Archer didn't know, and hoped to keep it that way.

As they approached the massive doors to the keep, a sudden sound of metal grinding on metal erupted, and the doors swung open on their battered hinges. Emerging from the darkness, a lone figure appeared, taller and wider than anything Archer had in his squad.

Stepping into the sunlight, blinking and snorting angrily, a Tauren male locked eyes with Archer. A banner in one hand, a heavy Totem in the other, his hooves churned the charred gravel with each step. Blood red armor covered his frame, while the fur on his arms had been burnt away. A nasty wound in his side had torn the armor there, and his entire right side had been drenched in his own blood.

"Stand fast." Archer ordered, handing off his rifle to Quinn. Drawing his ceremonial saber, Archer stepped forward, eyes still locked on the giant.

Taking a deep breath, the Tauren bellowed out a war cry, stampeding towards Archer with his totem raised high in the air.

Archer ran forward to meet him, bringing his saber in low to slash at the monster's hooves. In a second, they had passed each other, and the groaning Tauren sank to his knees. Three fingered hands grasped at the soil as he panted, and Archer circled around to face him once more.

Wordlessly, he raised his saber high into the air and brought it down on the Tauren's neck, severing his spine, but the entire head. With a spray of blood, the Tauren fell to the ground in a heap, dead before he hit.

Wiping the bloody steel on his pants, Archer sheathed his blade and took the rifle from Quinn. Turning to Maara in explanation, he nodded at the fallen man.

"An honorable death. The Tauren are infamous for it."

Maara, devoid of any signs of remorse, narrowed her eyes at the still warm corpse. "I was there, when my parents stayed behind in Shattrath. When the Orcs burst through the gates. When my mother..." A word caught in her throat, and Maara coughed quickly.

"These monsters know nothing of honor. Come; there may be more of them."

Archer had to jog to stay ahead of the Draenei woman, regretting his comment once he saw the pain in her eyes. He'd heard stories of the battle of Shattrath from other survivors; he had no idea Maara had been one of them. That was one of the many things that unnerved the other members of the alliance: no one knew for sure how long Draenei lived. Some seemed as young they appeared, no more than Archer's mere thirty years.

Others told stories about things that had occurred centuries before, swearing they'd been there to see it happen.

Trying to ignore the carnage behind him, Archer managed to get ahead of Maara before they stepped inside the fortress's keep, the dim lighting inside masking the contents.

As soon as their eyes adjusted, however, a new wave of disgust came over the soldiers.

"That explains what happened to the bodies..." One Marine muttered, stifling a heave at the stench alone.

"Eyes open! We've seen worse." Archer scolded, fighting the urge to run screaming himself. Inside the keep, dozens of bodies were piled in a ritualistic way, some obviously fresh from the fighting, others apparently months older. Orcs, Tauren, Trolls, Forsaken, Blood Elves, Goblins... Every race of the Horde was represented, all lying on their backs, their bodies desecrated for all to see.

The eye sockets were empty except for a dark ash, and the mouths were stretched unnaturally open, the teeth and soft tissue inside long gone. The smell of sulfur was so thick, it masked most of the decay in the air, but not all. There was no mistaking the work of a Warlock; and this Warlock had abandoned all hope of sanity or reason.

"Light above..." Maara gasped, her hand straying to the enchanted dagger at her waist.

In the center of the room, where all the bodies were arranged to face, a demonic portal sat. Green runes were still burning, with twisted horns reaching up into the shadows. Twin hooded figures stood on the right and left, glowing red eyes and long claws beckoning those who watched into the maw of the portal. The signature greenish black glow of the event horizon was long gone, but there was no mistaking what had taken place.

The Horde had sacrificed their own dead to power a portal to take them... somewhere.

"We need to get back to camp." Archer ordered, his mind reeling but still focused on their goal. "They may have circled around to counterattack."

"You don't think they went back to Orgrimmar?" Maara asked skeptically.

Archer shook his head. "They would have taken the Tauren."

"But what if there are reagents..." Maara started, drawing a few hard stares from the Marines around her. They weren't used to arguing, and the woman's constant chatting was starting to get on already thin nerves.

"Then they wouldn't have resorted to this." Archer pointed out. "Back to camp. Move!"

The squad of Marines filed quickly out, the shadows of the keep thankfully staying put. As they got back out into the open air, Archer couldn't help but notice again the other mystery of the silent fortress.

What monster had bled out on those spikes?

And were there more?


	2. Sticky

**DISCLAIMER: I do not now, nor have I ever, owned any of the characters or settings in the Blizzard gaming universe. I own only the characters I myself have created. All rights go to Blizzard Entertainment and its affiliates. **

**EDITOR'S NOTE: The characters I have created do not reflect my own personal opinions or beliefs; they are merely constructs useful in the telling of this story. I have not created any character for the purpose of inserting myself or any other individual into the story. They are merely characters. **

Bates hated being left behind. Never literally of course; the motto of the Stormwind Marines was 'Never leave a Man Behind', and Archer had that ingrained in his being. It was never a question; their unit came back dead or alive with all hands accounted for.

It was the waiting, the hoping, the guess work and extrapolation that Bates hated. He was the second in command, and he was damn good at his job; everyone said so.

And what was his job?

To be left behind. Archer would lead the men; that wasn't optional. Inured, exhausted, literally starving... It didn't matter. Where the men went, Archer went, and he would be the first into the trenches, Ogre's den, or Goblin whorehouse, every time. Non-negotiable.

Which was better than some of the 'Brass' officers back home. Far too many officers had the tactician's mind, but the civilian spine, and would gladly hear about the hardships of his troops from the safety and warmth of his command tent. Back in the Northrend Campaign, thousands of good men and women had been conscripted, and through Cult of the Damned infiltration, had been literally left out in the cold. Officers were mislead, mind-controlled, turned traitor, or just simply corrupted with the all mighty gold coin, and the enlisted folk suffered. No wonder when the war was over, those same men and women had turned to the New Brotherhood for answers.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Bates forced himself to turn away from the Orchish fortress. Archer would have that under control; it would be the one thing Bates wouldn't have to worry about. It was only everything else that was on his plate. From rations, medical supplies, personnel disputes, and local customs, Bates had seen just about everything imaginable, and still managed to occasionally swoop in with a fast transport home and a few beers to celebrate with. Bates was the 'Closer', the 'Finisher', the 'Cleaner'. He was the one that made 'Happily Ever After' end in anything other than disaster.

And over all, through the years, he'd come to the conclusion that he hated it with a passion. Some people would love his job and all the danger that didn't come with it, but that was just it. Sergeant Archer would be out there in the thick of it, making his country and his Alliance proud, while Bates got stuck with the mop and bucket, filing reports and dealing with the headaches.

Speaking of those headaches, his ears perked up at the sound of Captain Rogers.

Again.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine! Get off of me and tend to someone else!"

Her annoyed and still groggy orders had been ringing out incessantly since Archer had left, and Bates had just hit his limit. Letting out a long breath, he spun on his heel and locked eyes on the raging woman.

"Captain Rogers." Bates snapped, loud enough for everyone present to hear him. Protocol and respect were out the proverbial window now, but what was Rogers going to do?

Throw him in the brig?

"You are injured, suffering from blood loss, and currently unable to even stand up to have this discussion." Bates pointed out, standing over her with arms folded. "Your second in command is dead, your ship is in a million pieces, and your other officers are either dead or wounded. Stormwind Naval protocol puts Sergeant Archer in command until we rejoin Alliance forces, and right now, he's left me in charge."

Rogers, fighting to keep her eyes open, glared up at Bates angrily. "You're going to pull protocol on me?"

Nostrils flaring like a bull, Bates knelt down to come face to face with the woman. "Ma'am, I'll pull a sword on you if means shutting you up. Any and all noise could draw the rest of the Horde down on us, and we're in no position to either retreat or resist an attack. So, my first and only order to you, ma'am, is to shut up."

If there had been any blood left in her face, it would have run to Rogers' cheeks. Finally giving up the argument, she sank back onto her back on the stretched out cloak. Letting her blonde hair fall back over her face, it was a long moment before she clawed it away again. Blood streaked and singed, her long hair was normally tucked into a tight bun under the traditional Naval captain's hat, it's white plumage and deep blue satin long discarded on the Skyfire. Without it, Rogers almost looked like a normal, albeit beautiful, human woman.

"Any sign of Archer?" Rogers weakly asked, sensing Bates' eyes still on her.

Swallowing the taste of fear in his mouth, Bates shook his head. "Not yet. They haven't been gone that long; probably not even to the fortress yet."

"We can see the damn thing from here." Rogers shot back, rolling onto her side to see the looming walls of steel.

Bates shrugged, not sure if Rogers was even paying attention to his responses. "I doubt they're doing a dead sprint; they're probably taking it slow in case the Horde has any surprises waiting."

Surprises. Like, for instance, an entire fortress on a previously undiscovered landmass in the middle of what should be the Veiled Sea. The Elves had avoided sailing this close to the mists for thousands of years, it was only for their Light-forsaken mission that they had dared to head so far south. Honestly, Bates himself had been expecting to find some sick mirror of Northrend and the southern pole of Azeroth. The Gnomes had been predicting something similar, anyway, and they were rarely wrong on such things.

Instead, there was a jungle and a million bloodthirsty Orcs.

Still lost in thought, Bates' barely noticed when Rogers' eyes went wide, and she had to grab his knee where it rested in the sand to get his attention.

"Corporal. Movement in the trees, just behind you."

Bates cursed his own inattention and his mind raced a mile a minute. He and Rogers were on the edge of the small camp, with those few Marines that weren't injured moving in a loose patrol around the perimeter. Those who were critically injured had been placed in the center of the group so as to be closer to the medics treating them, while Rogers had insisted on being on the edge, closest to the strange forest on their heels.

Taking in a sharp breath, Bates called out in a tone no one could mistake.

"Kitty. Mad Midget. Spank the Troll, six o'clock."

Immediately, two marines jumped up from where they were sitting and stole away to the edge of the group, waiting on the next step in the plan. 'Mad Midget' was a Night Elf man, close to seven feet tall, and with an ominous, serious nature that contrasted sharply with his nickname. Only veteran members of the unit knew the origin behind the nickname, and the Goblin woman who'd started it. But it had stuck, and so Mad Midget was christened.

Kitty was much simpler to explain; the Gilnean woman's Worgen form was decidedly feline in appearance, as many female Worgen were, and 'Kitty' had unanimously been adopted.

"One and a Half, distraction."

The human woman in question jumped to her feet and whirled on Bates as if insulted, a demented grin already forming. In an accident years earlier, she'd suffered a horrific injury to her torso that had severed her right arm and one of her breasts. Healers had done their best, and though the arm had been reattached with minimal side effects, her feminine figure was never the same. With the right armor, it was impossible to tell, but the private loved to talk about and show off the scars whenever possible.

Thus the nickname, which she herself had started.

"Hot and fast, or sticky?"

Bates rolled his shoulder and groaned out an answer. "Sticky; I think I popped something in my shoulder during the crash."

Without any further hesitation, One and a Half slapped Bates across the face and started shouting obscenities.

"How dare you? You think I'm some cheap, back alley whore like your mother?"

Bates, used to the routine, feigned anger and held out his arms in protest. "I saw ass, I grabbed ass! You know that's how I work!"

At the noise, every sailor and Marine present stopped to stare at the argument, eyes wide and jaws slack. Meanwhile, Kitty and Mad Midget had slipped out of sight and into the trees, grinning at the display.

Rogers, unfamiliar with this exact tactic, knew Bates well enough by now to know something was up. Eyes still on the treeline, even she couldn't stifle a grin at the Marines' antics.

"Well, this ass is more than you can handle, Corporal! Tell me again, how did you get promoted over me? Was your daddy from Arathi, or did that brown nose just spread all over your face?"

Bates, biting his tongue to avoid laughing, tried to remember the correct comeback while keeping a sideways glance on the trees. The two Marines were nearly to the faint rustle of movement coming from behind the strange, thin tree trunks of the forest.

Dark skinned from birth, his parents had, in fact, been of Arathi descent. Humans from that region had always borne darker skin and broader frames from the harsh life in the hot plains, and the men loved bringing up the stereotypes associated with his particular heritage. Actual racism was rare to non-existent, with the other non-human races taking the brunt of that.

"As a matter of fact, I am Arathi, and you know what that means?" Bates asked, stepping closer to One and a Half.

Grinning from ear to ear, the woman stepped towards him until they were nose to nose.

"You've got a wand the size of a broadsword?"

"Nope. My ass-cheeks get sticky when I sweat."

By now, most of the sailors listening were rolling in laughter, and a sharp whistle told Bates that the Troll had indeed been spanked. Dropping the act, he whipped out his short saber and turned to face the pair of marines and their prize, One and a Half right behind him.

Kitty had assumed her furrier persona, and for once, she wasn't the only one with fur in sight. She and Mad Midget were hauling along a male... something... who was covered from head to toe in black and white fur. Small, round ears sat at the very top of the man's head, while an ursine snout came complete with whiskers and a wet black nose.

Wide eyes took in the sight of the assembled marines, while strange leather armor covered his thick form, artistic designs in strange patterns showing off the obvious craftsmanship of the leather worker who'd made the pieces.

In Mad Midget's hands was a cross bow and quiver that had obviously been confiscated from the stranger, the same artistic quality evident in the weapon's construction.

"Only weapon we found on him was this; he seems scared out of his mind." Midget reported, handing over his prize to Bates.

"Good work, Mad Midget." Bates praised.

"My name is Talren Sparrowelm."

Laughing softly, Bates nodded to him before turning to their guest.

"Well well well. What do we have here?"

A long string of a foreign language spilled out of the man, eyes wide and chest heaving in panic. Kneeling in the soft sand, the stranger gestured wildly at the crossbow, tears forming as he tried to beg it off of Bates.

"You'll get it back." Bates promised, hoping his tone would carry through. Turning to the assembled sailors behind him, he spoke loud enough for all to hear.

"Anyone speak whatever this guy's speaking?"

A long silence answered him, and again, he turned to the Night Elf man before him. "How old are you, Talren?"

Doing some mental math, Mad Midget spit out a rough estimate. "Eight thousand years, give or take a century."

"And how many languages do you speak?"

Looking down at his boots in embarrassment, this answer came much faster. "Two..."

Sighing, Bates turned back to the stranger. "Sign language it is, then."

The stranger's eyes still lingered on the crossbow, almost like a mother seeing her child. Frowning in thought, Bates carefully took the weapon, and after checking twice that it was unloaded and not in the least bit dangerous, he handed it back to the man.

Kitty and Midget tensed noticeably, weapons at the ready, but Bates waved them off.

As soon as the cool wood was back in the man's hands, he relaxed and let out a long breath. Another long string of foreign words came, but Bates still couldn't make heads or tails of them. By the tone, however, he had to guess that the weapon was some kind of family heirloom. On a wild guess, Bates would have said it had been the man's father's, and just holding the unloaded weapon seemed to calm him.

"Okay. Now, where did you come from?" Bates asked, gesturing with his hands into the woods. "In there? Or..." Turning, he waved to the Orc fortifications on the horizon.

At the sight of the iron walls, the stranger frowned and bared his canine teeth. Spitting into the sand, he shook his head and uttered one word that Bates knew immediately.

"Horde."

"Well, there's some common ground." Bates said with a smile.

Before anyone could ask another question, the man rose to his feet, and motioned as if he holding a flag. Grandly planting his imaginary flag in the sand, he spoke the word again, feigned arrogance clear.

"For the Horde!" He spit again, shaking his head and glaring out at the fortress. "Horde, Sha'a."

"Sha'a?" Bates asked, butchering the accent entirely. It was said with enough conviction that he figured it must mean something, and at his repetition, the man nodded stiffly.

"Horde, Sha'a." Pointing at the rest of the sailors around him, he raised an eyebrow in question. "...Horde?"

Bates shook his head, reaching for the folded tabard that One and a Half offered him. "No. Alliance." Pointing to the golden embroidered lion clearly visible on the marine's uniform.

Narrowing his eyes, the stranger tried out the strange word. "Aal... I... ents." Grabbing his imaginary flag again, he made a show of planting it once more, eyebrow raised as he glanced at Bates.

"For the... Aal-i-ents?"

At Bates' pause, Rogers finally spoke up. "He's asking if we're claiming his land like the Orcs did."

Rising to her feet painfully, she leaned heavily on Kitty, who had since resumed her human form. Now holding the stranger's attention, she waved her hand in an obvious sign of dismissal.

"No. We're looking for something, and then we'll leave. We are _not_ the Horde."

Not understanding her meaning, he heard enough of her tone to understand her next words.

"They claimed my home, too."

All those present felt a twinge of pain as they thought again of Southshore, and the lives lost to needless aggression. They'd all lost something, and some had lost everything. Had the Horde already claimed more innocent lives? Had one more homeland been scarred by war and violence?

"So, you're no friend of the Orcs. Where do you come from then?" Bates asked, gesturing again at the woods where the man had come from.

Turning to the sand now, the man drew a series of crude pictures with a long claw in the sand. As they watched, a surprisingly well drawn village with strange, curved lines appeared on a mountain. Leading down was a path that forked in two, with one leading to the beach where they now stood. Motioning to his own eyes, he pointed to the sky where the Skyfire once hovered, and then at the site where she'd crashed into the water.

"So, he saw the firefight and came to investigate." Bates summed up.

"Brilliant deduction." Rogers snapped. Still staring at the stranger, she nodded up at the woods. "Your village is back that way?"

The man nodded, seemingly understanding her perfectly.

Rogers nodded back at the various wounded, and waved at her own bloody bandages. "We have wounded; do your people have healers?"

Narrowing his eyes at the wounded men and women, the man nodded firmly. Pointing towards the woods, he looked between Bates and Rogers as if urging them onward.

"Bates, you're with me. Kitty, is it?" She asked, turning to the Gilnean.

"PFC Emma Corbyn, at your service." Kitty said grandly, her accent coming through as strong as ever.

"Find me a crutch. Chief Engineer Blackspark?"

A gray haired Gnomish man with a singed mustache looked up, rising to his feet a moment later.

"You have command. Bates, you and your men are with me. We're going to check out that village."

Bates nodded to Kitty, who stepped into the trees again looking for the Captain's new crutch. Turning back to Rogers, he tried to find an argument that would stop the woman.

"Sergeant Archer wanted us to stay here; if he comes back with the Horde on his heels..."

"Then we'd better have an evac route set up if that happens. Look, Corporal..." At Bates objection, she rolled her eyes and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to investigate whether you come, or not. Do you want to explain to Archer that you let me wander into the jungle with a Furbolg, alone?"

Bates truly hated that she was right, but she was. Rolling his jaw to relieve the tension, he nodded to the Marines behind him, who were already ready to march. By the knowing looks in their eyes, they'd known exactly how the conversation was going to end from the start.

"Alright. Let's go, and hopefully be back before Sergeant Archer." Bates conceded, laughing mentally at the chances of that.

Taking the crude wooden crutch Kitty had tossed her, Rogers raised an eyebrow dangerously. "Or what? He'll spank you?"

There was a deadly, tangible silence, broken after a moment by Bates himself.

"Ma'am, with all due respect..." Locking eyes with the woman, a smile fighting to break free, he forced himself to sound serious. "Shut up and march."

A few choking laughs escaped from the sailors within earshot as the group marched into the trees, the stranger leading the small column.

Rogers did her best to hobble on her makeshift crutch, but it was obvious that the battle had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit. Even with the efforts of their resident Priestess, she was lagging as the six of them made their way up a hill, the trees pressing in closer as they went.

The strange specimens were unlike anything the five Alliance members had encountered; from Northrend to even the scorched Outland, the long, slender trees seemed almost like living spears, with segments like insects as thick around as a human hand. They grew in tight clusters, with little foliage brave enough to approach besides the equally strange, sweet smelling grasses underfoot.

All at once, a stone pathway formed, with intricate carvings marking the way. As Bates passed by one of the markers, he couldn't help but stop to study it.

Standing as tall as he was, at least six inches taller than the stranger still trudging along ahead, the statue almost reminded him of the Draenei among them, if not for the obvious evil emanating from it. A small head, broad chest, and piercing eyes sat on the otherwise almost human creature, a thick under bite revealing blunt fangs, one of which had chipped away from age. Moss covered the statue from head to toe, and at least one spider had made a web in the creature's open hand.

"Mogu."

The word made Bates flinch and turn, the stranger suddenly standing within arm's reach of him.

"Mogu?" Bates asked, the word simple enough for even him to mimic.

Nodding gravely, the stranger clutched his crossbow closer to his chest. The arrows were still with Midget, but the man seemed comforted just to have the weapon in hand as he studied the statue beside Bates. With a sudden wave of dismissal, he turned on his heel and uttered what must have been a curse under his breath.

Another long string of foreign language came, which by tone alone seemed to be 'we're almost there'. Once again leading the column, he paid no more attention to the stone artwork.

Falling into step besides Rogers, Bates couldn't shake the ominous feeling from the statue.

"Think it's based on a real species?" Rogers asked, nodding over her shoulder.

"I'd say so, by our friend's reaction." Bates answered with a shrug.

Before Rogers could ask another question, Bates kicked a stone out of the way of her crutch. Oblivious to it, and the next one, she tripped and cursed under her breath. Falling nearly into Bates' arms, he stiffly scooped the woman up in his arms, damsel-in-distress style, and held her crutch in one hand.

Gritting her teeth with pain and embarrassment, she glared daggers at Bates who was now practically nose to nose with her. "Under no circumstances are you to tell Archer about this!"

Bates raised an eyebrow and easily hopped over a deep rut in the path, with Rogers pressed firmly into his chest.

"Same to you, ma'am! Our asses are supposed to be back in camp right now, not going on a nature walk."

Both of the officers turned their attention back to the path ahead as Kitty shouted in warning, pointing with her rifle to the break in the trees not twenty feet in front of her.

All at once, the strange trees had parted, and the strange structures Archer had spotted loomed grandly before them. Two and three stories, the stone walled buildings each featured the same ornate artwork, as well as curved rooftops and circular doors and windows. Winding paths led between them, with lanterns hanging from poles, unlit for the time being.

Walking on those paths were more of the creatures of the stranger's species, each adorned with the same leather armor. Wide, circular hats rested on their heads to shield their pale fur from the hot sun, giving the entire scene a completely foreign feel. Not even in the ruins of Shattrath City had Bates felt more out of place.

Before anyone could comment on the strange sight, a dozen men swooped out of the strange trees, weapons in place and pointed towards Bates' men.

Dropping Rogers' on her good leg, Bates whipped out his combat knife and tried to bring his rifle to bear with his free hand, only to have it ripped away by a woman with a black silk mask covering her face. Twin, burning yellow eyes stared out at him, right as a paw slammed into his chest and sent him to the ground.

"Sir? We're surrounded!" Kitty shouted, her own weapon jerked away as she reached for it.

"Weapons down! Weapons down; we're outnumbered!" Bates ordered, waving to his men as a shining steel blade was placed inches from his nose.

"...and outgunned." Bates ground out, hoping his people would follow the order without any bloodshed. In any other place, at any other time, he would gladly have fought it out hand to hand, but a few factors led to a much different product.

First, they were the strangers here, and the natives weren't technically the enemy. Second, Bates would probably have done the same thing if he'd seen a half dozen armed strangers marching into Goldshire. Finally, and most importantly, the rest of their people had no idea where they were. If they fought it out and lost, Archer would know only that he'd lost five people in the woods with no idea why.

Fighting the urge to slap the blade out of his face, Bates waited as the strangers pulled him to his feet and herded his marines into a tight circle, with Rogers in the center. The burning anger in her eyes told Bates that she'd gone through a similar mental evaluation and conclusion.

Only when the strangers relaxed their weapons did their guide step forward, speaking as fast as his friends had moved.

Again understanding only the man's tone, Bates figured he was explaining to the group what had happened and who Bates' men were. By the still narrowed eyes of the leader, the argument was falling on deaf ears.

Jerking her head at the crossbow-wielding man, the woman brushed him aside and met Bates' stare once more.

A single word left her lips, articulated carefully.

"Horde."

Bates shook his head, pointing to the golden emblem emblazoned on the leather covering his shoulder.

"Alliance. Not Horde, not 'Sha', not 'Mogu'. Alliance!" Bates spoke clearly too, not wanting to have the conversation a third time.

Breaking her stare, the woman grunted to her men, who cleared a path to the village itself. By now, most of the villagers had scurried into their homes, but still looked curiously out at the visitors as they were led past. Into the center of the village they marched, the woman in black still glaring at Bates, before they finally stopped before a strange fountain.

In the center of the bubbling water, another ancient statue stood, this one much more carefully preserved. Carved from a solid piece of jade, a strange serpent was coiled around a globe of onyx, long fangs protruding and smoke flowing out of its nostrils. Its eyes seemed to take in the sight of the strangers as much as the villagers had.

No sooner had they stopped before the statue than a new player entered the silent game, walking out of the largest and most ornate structure they'd seen so far. Woven wooden planks separated in the shadow of the building's porch, the circular frame admitting an old man.

He was larger than the other men they'd seen so far, both in height and weight. All of the natives seemed to be on the overweight side, at least in Bates' opinion, but he couldn't deny the grace and speed the soldiers possessed. This man, though gray with age, radiated that same power.

As soon as the older man stepped into the sunlight, the woman in charge of the soldiers walked quickly to him, bowing respectfully before pointing accusingly at Bates, speaking so rapidly that he couldn't even guess at the words she was using.

Listening wordlessly, the old man nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Bates'. After the woman had finished her tale, he took another few steps closer, until he was at arm's length away from the Marine. Studying him carefully, the old man finally snorted in approval.

Looking over his shoulder, he gave a few short orders, and a small army of attendants brought cushions and umbrellas from their hiding places, soon forming a island of shade in the scorching sun. At Bates order, the other Marines hesitantly took seats on the intricately embroidered pillows, the scent of lavender and other strange herbs heavy on the fine fabric.

Kneeling down on one of the cushions, the old man motioned for Bates to follow suit. Only when he'd done so did he sigh heavily and speak again.

As usual, Bates couldn't even begin to guess at the words themselves, but the man's meaning was clear enough by the tone and obvious context.

'Who are you? Why have you come here?'

Bates thought over his response, conscious of the curious Rogers seated behind him, who was doubtlessly dying to throw her own two cents in. But the old man had addressed Bates, and the Marine did have training in first contact, after all. Naval captains could fake their way through the process of introducing themselves to a new species, but Marines were drilled on it. Bates himself had just recently been the officer on hand to negotiate with the ancient Tol'vir of Uldum about a treaty with the Alliance. They hadn't exactly flown any Alliance banners from their capital afterwards, but Bates hadn't down any worse than the Horde representatives, which was the goal at the end of the day.

Today, however, Bates was in a slightly different situation. There were no translators, no dialogue established, no favors owed. In Uldum, at least, an Alliance operative had helped rescue the king's brother from their ancestral enemies. That alone got them a foot in the door.

Here, he was a complete stranger, and the only word they both understood was, ironically, 'Horde'.

Throwing caution to the wind, Bates spoke in plain Common, hoping his meaning would carry over as easily as the old man's.

'Friends, who are lost.'

'My people tell me you are not Horde.'

'No, not Horde. Enemies of the Horde.'

The man's tone changed now, a deep and pained look coming into his blue eyes. It was as if he had a deep burden he was carrying, but didn't know how to shed it.

"Bates." Rogers whispered, suddenly nudging him with her elbow.

"Captain?" Bates shot a warning glance over his shoulder, not wanting any distractions.

"Look around, Marine. What don't you see?" Rogers asked, waving a hand at the group of curious natives who were starting to reappear.

Bates shrugged, annoyed to the extreme with the woman. "I don't know, I don't see it!"

"Children."

With a single word, all of the Marines jerked with realization. Sure enough, all of the strangers were young adults or older, most much older. There wasn't a single child in the entire village, at least not visible. In their place, more than a few women were wiping at their eyes with silk handkerchiefs, studying the Alliance men and women with almost desperate curiosity.

Not missing a thing, the old man repeated the word exactly.

'Children. Our children... they are gone.'

'Horde? The Horde took them?'

'Please, help us. We cannot fight the Horde!'

Even Rogers understood the old man now, who was nearly sobbing as he spoke. Shaking visibly, he pointed off in the distance, and Bates followed his stare.

Poking above the strange trees, a massive stone tower was visible. Even from where he sat nearly a mile away, he could see the same strange carvings as they'd seen on the road coming in.

'The Horde took your children there?'

'Days ago. Please, can you help us?'

Bates rose to his feet now, looking to the woman who'd disarmed him neutrally. Holding out his hand, he waited until the woman sullenly returned his knife.

'We'll bring your children home; I promise.'

At his words, the old man jumped to his feet and rushed over to Bates, wrapping him in a massive hug before the Marine could protest. Arms locked around his chest, Bates had little choice but to hug the massive man back, carefully sliding the knife back into his sheath.

"Careful, Corporal. That might be a promise you can't keep." Rogers warned, taking a hand from Kitty to rise to her feet.

"Maybe; but I'll be damned if I don't try." Bates shot back, finally breaking free of the bear hug.

"Damn straight."

All eyes turned to see a new group walk into the village, which disturbed the female soldier to no end.

"Sergeant Archer!" Bates saluted quickly, which the other man returned. Surveying the village quickly, Archer could only whistle in surprise.

"Folks, we're not in Goldshire any more. What's the situation, Corporal?"

It took no more than a minute to explain the situation, and Archer nodded in agreement. Turning to the old man, Archer offered a gloved hand and smiled firmly.

"Fighting the Horde is our job, sir. We'll do our best to get your people out."

"Thank you! Thank you all!"

It took a long moment for anyone to realize what they'd heard, and Archer jerked in surprise as he processed it. Whirling around, he caught sight of Maara's mischievous grin. Purple sparks flew from her fingers as she waved to each of the Marines present, focusing carefully as she mouthed the words to a spell.

"Arcane enhanced intellect; one of the side effects is a minor translation spell. It's not perfect, but it should allow basic communication with these people. You're welcome."

Bates sighed inwardly as he glared at the Draenei woman, wishing for the hundredth time they'd been assigned a military Mage instead of a civilian. There were plenty of Humans, Dwarves, or even Gnomes who could have done the job of Maara Taaln easily, and with a lot less attitude. But no; they'd been assigned the exotically beautiful Draenei with a chip on her shoulder.

But that was life in the Stormwind Marines.

"You... can understand me?" The old man asked slowly, obviously not understanding exactly what had happened.

"We can. My name is Sergeant Blake Archer, of the Stormwind Marines. We mean you no harm." Archer's offered hand was taken now, and the old man shook it vigorously.

"Elder Daelo, of the Pandaren. My village is called Paw'don, and we are not a military fortress!" The Elder spoke with conviction now, gripping Archer's hand almost painfully. "We want no part in any wars! We only want our children back..."

Archer gently pulled his hand back, and Daelo remembered he was still holding it in his massive paw. Meeting his stare again, there was a tangible sense of fear in the old man's eyes.

"Elder, I meant what I said. If the Horde have your people, we'll do everything we can to get them back. Where are they being held?"

Again, Daelo pointed to the stone fortress through the trees, a hint of malice in his voice as he spoke. "A nameless, nearly forgotten Mogu fortress on the edge of the forest. It has been abandoned for generations, since the last war. But as soon as these 'Horde' arrived, they split into two groups. Half remained on the shores where their ships landed, but the rest moved into the Mogu's old home. Not long after, monsters fit for nightmares stole into the village while we slept and abducted our children from their beds!"

The woman beside him spoke up now, her voice as harsh as ever.

"We chased them into the Bamboo for hours, but they used foul and strange magics to evade us. All attempts to force our way inside have only resulted in more death. You discovered one of my scouts earlier this morning, who was trying to find some weakness in their defenses."

Cutting off the woman before she could say anything more, Daelo hurriedly apologized. "Please, forgive Snowlily for capturing you! We had no way of knowing if you were friends or foes!"

Bates grinned good naturedly and shrugged, meeting the woman's steely gaze. "I'd have done the same. But I'd still like to get all of my gear back."

Reaching up to her face, she untied the black silk mask from her wide rimmed hat and exposed a strangely beautiful face. Distrustful sneer in place, she tossed a rifle back to the man, and the rest of her team grudgingly returned the rest of the Marines' weapons.

"Next time, you should be more aware of your surroundings, and less aware of your mate's breasts."

Rogers looked up sharply, not knowing who to snap at first. Archer beat her to the punch, resting a hand on Bates' shoulder gently.

"You heard her, Corporal. We'll discuss this later, in depth. For now, I have a favor to ask of you, Elder."

"If you can bring back our children, ask the moon and stars, and we'll pluck them from the sky for you!" Daelo swore, his hands meeting in front of his chest, fist to open palm. The gesture was practiced, and Archer suspected it was their form of a salute.

"Nothing so astronomical. Our people are injured, and our medics are running out of options. Do you have any healers among your people?" Archer asked, looking to the crowd of assembled 'Pandaren'.

"Of course!" Daelo relaxed noticeably, as if relieved Archer hadn't taken him up on his grandiose offer. "It is my people's custom to help those in need. The Horde nearly broke us of that tradition, however..."

"We're not all like them." Archer assured him, standing a little taller as he said it. "Thank you, for your kindness. Corporal?"

Bates could already sense the order coming, and knew immediately he wouldn't be seeing any Mogu fortresses today.

"Organize our people and get them up here, starting with the most critically wounded. Have Ward make the call, and I want your squad escorting them down that trail. No telling when the Horde will make a counterattack. In the meantime, I'll take second squad and scout out the Horde's position."

"My people will join you." Snowlily said firmly, not leaving any room for argument.

Archer nodded, hoping for just that offer. "We'd appreciate the help. And Bates?"

Bates hid the frustrated expression almost perfectly as he turned back to Archer, already running plans and numbers through his tired mind.

"Good work."


	3. Red Shores

**DISCLAIMER: I do not now, nor have I ever, owned any of the characters or settings in the Blizzard gaming universe. I own only the characters I myself have created. All rights go to Blizzard Entertainment and its affiliates. **

**EDITOR'S NOTE: The characters I have created do not reflect my own personal opinions or beliefs; they are merely constructs useful in the telling of this story. I have not created any character for the purpose of inserting myself or any other individual into the story. They are merely characters. **

"That's it, alright."

Sergeant Archer collapsed the Gnomish made pocket telescope, tucking it into his belt and standing up once more.

"They keep our children in the center of the courtyard, guarded by demons." Snowlily pointed out, barely contained fury showing through her otherwise delicate voice.

The pair were hidden in the trees just northeast of the Mogu fortress, second squad waiting just beyond in the dense foliage. Snowlily had insisted bluntly that she was as much in command as Archer, at least in matters concerning her people. Archer couldn't argue the point, much, especially when the woman had led them straight to the fortress's back entrance without alerting the Horde's lookouts.

Which brought them to the Horde themselves...

As most Alliance school children knew, the Orcs were the primary race of the Horde, as the humans were in the Alliance. The Orc's city of Orgrimmar was the seat of power for its leaders, with blood red banners flying from the canyon's walls.

Among the other races of the Horde were the Tauren, whose stature alone made them terrifying in combat. An otherwise gentle people, they were the least hated of all the Horde's allies, and many Night Elf Druids had friends among the Tauren's own Druids.

Then there were Trolls, whose savagery and primitive lifestyle was downright repulsive to most civilized races. Humanity had fought multiple wars with multiple tribes, and never made a single friend among the pointy eared, tusked monsters.

Finally, at least among the 'core' races of the Horde, were the Forsaken. Unlike every other race that constituted the Horde, the Forsaken were the ones who'd touched the human race the most. Comprised of Elves and Humans alike, they were the fallen soldiers and civilians of Lordaeron, the first kingdom. When a terrible plague had spread over the land, the Lich King had raised the fallen to serve as his own army. Through deceit and betrayal, one Elf in particular had risen through the ranks to become one of the Lich King's generals, before finally cutting ties with the traitor king and leading her people to independence.

Decades prior, the Banshee Queen Sylvanas had sent emissaries to the human kingdom of Stormwind, claiming to have changed their ways. Those same emissaries were hung from trees and burned by those that found them, and the Banshee had thrown her lot in with the Horde. Since then, she'd shown her true colors, and plagues had rained down on Azeroth left and right. All had come from the supposedly reformed Banshee and her 'innocent victims', the Forsaken.

The beachhead that Archer had helped bomb had been manned mostly by Orcs, Tauren, Goblins, and a few Trolls. Few Blood Elves had been seen, as they preferred to work and fight in their own company. Archer had assumed that the same could be said for the Forsaken, but apparently the undead had worked alongside them long enough to land on the shores of Pandaria. Why they had split, Archer didn't know, but there was no mistaking that his abandoned Mogu installation was now in the hands of the Forsaken, with purple banners flying in the wind.

The Pandaren children were indeed in a pen in the center of the village, a few menacing Fel Hounds sniffing around the edge of the iron cage. Their Warlock handlers weren't far, practicing some foul ritual or another in a glowing circle of runes.

"Human, look there!" Snowlily suddenly pointed to the far corner of the courtyard, and Archer's spyglass came up again.

Clustered on one of the courtyard's inner walls, crude metal cages held some more familiar figures. Disarmed, beaten, and looking like they'd been through Hell and then some, the missing pilots from the Skyfire stood glaring out at their captors.

"They're with us. Captured by the Horde, most likely for information." Archer growled, his mind already living out some of the torture methods he knew would be used. Forcing himself to look away, he folded up the spyglass again and motioned for Snowlily to fall back.

A few yards away, shrouded by the shadows of the Bamboo, second squad and Snowlily's men waited anxiously for news. Even as close to the Horde base of operations as they were, none of the Marines flinched at the idea of going in. Horde soldiers or not, this was their mission, and they were going to see it to the end. They knew no other way.

Snowlily's people, however, had already impressed Archer with their bravery. Seeing the Forsaken up close and personal, and coming back for more? That took guts, at least in Archer's book.

"Alright, we've got Forsaken based troops holding down the fort down there. Pandaren hostages, and Alliance prisoners." Archer detailed, drawing a crude map of the forts layout in the damp soil. Snowlily, disgusted at his lack of artistry, carefully filled in the drawing with a finely whittled twig.

"Your missing men?" Maara asked skeptically. "The Horde aren't known for taking prisoners."

Archer raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "The Horde isn't just the Orcs or Trolls anymore. Goblins practically invented the slave trade, and Forsaken have been kidnapping and experimenting on prisoners since they still served the Lich King. The point is, we're not letting our people spend the night in those cages."

"A wise move." Snowlily said cryptically. "After dark, these trees are a decidedly less friendly place to be."

On sudden inspiration, Archer turned to the woman with a question that had been nagging at him all day.

"The Horde base on the beach had spikes jammed into the ground, inside and out, covered in blood from an animal I didn't recognize. What do you know about it?"

Surprise and then concentration formed in the woman's expression as she thought, as if trying to word her explanation simply enough.

"Sha'a." She said simply, after a pause long enough to frustrate the Marine. "They come every so often, always at night, claiming those of us who are ready to venture beyond."

"Beyond what?" Archer asked.

It was Maara to came to the rescue, suddenly seeming a thousand years older. "Beyond life. These creatures claim the dead, don't they?"

Snowlily nodded sagely, avoiding anything in particular with her thousand yard stare. "My parents were taken when I was but a cub. Most of the time, those that venture beyond are at the end of their lives here on Pandaria. We have known of them since before our people had a written language."

"And these... 'Sha'..." Butchering the accent entirely, Archer waved his hand slowly to urge the woman on. "Have black blood?"

Swallowing hard, Snowlily shook her head. "These things _are_ black blood. Fear incarnate, they cannot be stopped. We gave up trying centuries ago. It is as simple as enjoying every day you are given, and hoping that when the night comes, you are indoors and with your family."

Archer actually grinned now, shaking his head in amazement. "Well, let me tell you something. That's not how the Stormwind Marines go down. After dark, when these 'Sha' come knocking, we'll use the distraction to stage a raid and get all of our people out. And, I think I know how."

At the look of surprise on his men's faces, Archer nodded over his shoulder at the Horde base.

"Loka."

Grunt Captain Loka. An Orc female.

In Orc life, there were three kinds.

The young, fat, beautiful ones. They bore children, cooked meat, and had songs written about them. Air headed, useless in the eyes of a warrior except as prizes.

The old, worn out, ugly hags. Wise beyond their years, they saw what life was and warned the younger ones with their harsh tongues. They were rare, as few Orcs lived that long.

Then there was Loka's kind.

She was no different than many Orc women that had seen as many winters as she had. Green skin, darker than some from the sun. Sharp teeth, with one fang missing after a night in Ratchet. Pointed ears, without any of the jewelry that some idiots wore. She had no feminine figure to speak of; hard labor, harder battles, and a lifetime of struggle had kept her rolling in muscle without a spare ounce of fat for breasts. One of her men had once seen her naked and not realized her gender for a long minute. Granted, Orc men were stupid, but Loka was definitely no Blood Elf in a cocktail dress.

And so she fought, as all Orcs did.

But now, it was all wrong.

Forsaken... Dead-men that liked things that were dead. Not good and hot dead, but old and cold dead. It made Loka sick, and she hated being sick. Now, instead of fighting alongside them, she was practically their prisoner.

Walking along one of the high parapets of the ancient fortress, she and her few loyal men kept a sharp lookout for threats, both within and without the thick stone walls. These were strange times in strange lands, and Loka wanted no more surprises. Not after Garrosh'ar point...

And so, when she heard a certain twig snap, a scuffle of leather on stone, that familiar 'thump' of a human's body weight, she grinned with all three of her front teeth.

Her guards, too focused on the Dead-mean below, didn't hear the human soldier until it was too late. A flash of light reflected off of the blade was all the warning they got before Loka had been dragged back into the shadow of the stone tower, her men reacting like startled pigs a moment later.

"Loka!"

"Lok'tar! Alliance dogs!"

"Blood and thunder!"

Loka would have been amused, if not for the pathetic reaction time of her soldiers. With a Stormwind-issue knife to her throat, she sighed heavily and held up a gloved hand.

"Stand down, you idiots. It's the pink one."

At her rough words, the three Orcish men caught their breath and lowered their weapons, looking sullenly at the pair now standing out of sight in the shadows. Slamming the butts of their massive axes into the stone pavers below, they gave a rough salute and resumed their watch of the Dead-men.

Switching over to the abominable 'common' tongue, Loka glanced sideways at the now familiar face of Sergeant Blake Archer.

"Not fair. The stink of the Dead-men masked your own."

Archer grinned and pulled his knife away, tucking it back into its sheath before folding his arms over his chest.

"So? I still got you. You owe me three."

Loka snorted in annoyance, rolling her eyes and nodding after a moment of thought. "Fine. But you still owe me one after the Twilight Highlands. I made that Dwarf piss himself!"

"I was counting that; it should have been four after that night in the Tenebrous cavern. Had you dead to rights in the kelp."

Vowing to do the math again later, Loka shrugged off the thought.

"So. What brings the great Pink One to my door?"

"What do you think?" Archer shot back, this time in Orcish. He only knew a few words, but then again, Orcish wasn't exactly a flowing, elegant language. Get the curses down and you're halfway there.

Sighing once more, Loka nodded at the tower beside them. "Inside. Too many eyes out here."

With her men actually performing a useful service, Loka escorted Archer into her secluded quarters behind the wall of muscle and blood red armor. Only when they were inside the dark, smelly chamber did Loka relax and roll the tension out of her shoulders.

The room was small, but Orcs were used to such. Pelts from strange animals lined the walls and floors, with crude candles sitting in piles here and there to light their way. Weapons, the only clean items in the room, were hung on the walls on pegs jammed cruelly into the ancient stone. It was amazing; before Loka's men had moved in, it had probably been as majestic and mysterious as the rest of the fortress. Now, it stank of ale and piss, reminding Archer of the bar in Ratchet where the two had met.

"I should thank you for the attack on Garrosh'ar Point; I lost all but ten of my men." Loka spit, narrowly avoiding Archer's boot as she did. Plopping down on one of the piles of hides, she stretched back and tossed her own ax to the floor.

Archer glanced out the brightly lit doorway at the fortress beyond, raising an eyebrow as he countered the remark. "I see four Orcs and close to a hundred Forsaken. You suck at counting."

Loka snorted, her nostrils flaring like a Tauren's. "I said _my _men. Six more are keeping watch on the Dead-men, and their prisoners. I believe that's why you're really here?"

Archer nodded stiffly, another image of grisly torture forming in his mind. He'd seen first hand what the Forsaken did to prisoners, if left alone long enough...

"They haven't been harmed, yet. You're welcome."

"Thank you, then." Archer said sincerely. "But I still need to get my men out, and the Pandaren children too. Tell me, Loka. Why were they taken at all?" Archer pressed, knowing full well how short the woman's temper was.

Instead of blowing a fuse or snarling at the human man, Loka could only look down at the stained floor.

"It was wrong... All of it."

Six ships sailed against the harsh southern winds, tacking for all they were worth with sailors running back and forth to trim the temperamental sails. It was a tricky business, tacking into the wind; smaller ships could get away with it in the right conditions, but these were no schooners in Bladefist Bay.

They were warships, low on fuel and lower on morale.

Six ships; four Dreadnoughts and two transports, loaded for bear and headed straight for the Eastern Kingdoms. After the battles that raged through Cataclysm, both the Horde and Alliance had been left vulnerable to attack, and now, Warchief Garrosh Hellscream had decided to take advantage of that vulnerability.

War Party Red Shore was set to make landfall on the shores of Westfall, the breadbasket of the Alliance's southern kingdoms. No Horde force had ever landed on its tame shores, though the country was reportedly burning itself down with opposition from within the humans own ranks. Their mission was to build a beachhead with Zeppelin support, make contact with the local opposition, and start an advance towards the capital city of Stormwind in a few weeks time.

They all knew it was suicide; the Alliance would soon rally to crush this new invasion, but in the meantime, invaluable troops and resources would be pulled from other theaters, which was exactly what Warchief Hellscream was hoping for.

Thomas White was a Warlock, and a powerful one at that. He'd fought personally in every major war since the formation of the New Horde. His Forsaken brethren had mixed feelings on his abilities; some said that he was a man after Sylvanas' own heart. Others pointed out his obvious lack of control over some of his demonic servants.

But in the end, whether an infernal burned one village or two, what did it matter? Blood was spilled and the Horde marched on. It was the way of the Forsaken.

Now, he'd actually been trusted with an important mission rather than simple scorched-earth operations. The human kingdom of Stormwind had long been a thorn in the side of the Forsaken people, and her people were ripe for harvesting. An Orcish built fleet would take his people straight to the shores of his enemy, and then the real fun would begin.

But as usual, all had not gone according to plan.

First, and most annoying to the decaying Warlock, was the acting Admiral of the fleet. Or 'Grunt Captain', as the savages called her. Her rank was too low for something so large, but her prowess in war and experience with the enemy had placed her squarely in White's way. Each ship captain reported directly to her, with White kept apprised of current events somewhere along the way.

This was _his _task force, _his _plan, and _his _victory! He'd be damned if he let some ass-ugly Orc bitch get in the way of that. She'd have to go, he knew that from the start. Most of his men agreed, even the idiotic Horde sympathizers. Loka was no friend to the Forsaken, that was no secret. But unfortunately, her own men were fiercely loyal to her, and they had support.

Red Shores had been given a half dozen Blood Elf sorcerers; magic experts whose experience in battle was laughable at best. But when it came to portals, arcane anomalies, and anything else strange or unexplainable, the pointy-eared bastards came in handy.

Then there were the Goblin engineers who'd promised to keep their new steam engines running from Orgrimmar's docks to the shores of Eastern Kingdoms. They were possibly the most obnoxious little shits that White had ever had the displeasure of meeting. He'd eaten things for less.

The Tauren and Trolls, savages to the last, had become odd bedfellows with their distaste for the mission as stated. They had no interest in invading the human's homeland, and both would rather see the resources of Red Shores go towards the emancipation of their beloved Barrens. Theramore may have been broken by an admittedly brilliant plan of Hellscreams, but the survivors had brought down an iron hammer on the grassy plains. It was one of the theaters they were hoping would send help to the besieged Westfall.

All of these men and women had one thing in common, however; they were loyal to Loka. White himself had specifically requested, and received, Undercity's best and brightest for the job of actually taking and holding Westfall. They knew it was a suicide mission; what missions weren't, anymore? But in the end, it would be a chance to finally cut the throat of a very old, very annoying enemy that had was begging for extinction. White had already formed an escape plan that involved the shadowy realm of Duskwood, and her tantalizing hordes of mindless undead. With those mavericks under his control, White could practically taste his counterattack and the blood of Elwynn's people on his purple lips.

Instead, the entire fleet had been lost in some light-cursed fog that made White reminisce of Lordaeron's plagued shores. Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem; there were always the stars to navigate by, and the pointy-eared bastards swore they had a foolproof magical navigation array.

Both had failed within minutes of entering the fog bank, and now, they'd missed their landing deadline. At this point, White wouldn't have cared if they stumbled upon the bloody Wetlands; just give him something to kill and someone to blame.

And then, like a Bat out of a sewer, a single speck of land had been sighted off of the port bow. One of the Tauren lookouts had spotted it, his eyes admittedly better than anyone else's aboard. The lumbering oafs were used to spotting Centaurs from miles away; land on the horizon was child's play in comparison. Of course, if the udder-wielding buffoons had been good at that, they wouldn't have needed the Horde to come and rescue them, would they...?

"All ships make for that land! All ahead full, we finally have a wind behind us!" Loka shouted from her perch by the helm. True to Orcish stupidity, the helm of Orcish Dreadnoughts was located at the front of the vessel, just behind the armor plates and as far away from the rudder as possible.

Orcs would have been adorable if they weren't so damned annoying...

"Grunt Captain!" White shouted, his raspy voice sounding a little healthier than usual in the soothing mist. "I can't help but notice the enormous stone pillars we're passing!"

Loka shot him an angry glare, one of the only expressions her face was able to make. "I've noticed, Dead-man."

Sighing heavily, White pointed a bony finger at one of the pillars passing dangerously close to his vessel. "And last I checked, Westfall was a sandbank. We're no where near the Eastern Kingdoms, are we?"

Loka shrugged, showing a surprising amount of humility as she answered. "At this point, I'll settle for Thousand Needles. There's a Goblin port south of there; maybe we can hug the coast and get our navigation sorted out."

"And lose another couple of months off of our already pathetic timetable?" White demanded, fury rising in his voice.

"What do you want me to do?" Loka shouted, waving a muscular arm at the landmass ahead. "Wave my arm and magically take us somewhere else?"

It was almost comical when a young Troll approached the Orcish woman, whispering in her ear and pointing frantically towards shore.

A strange look came over the woman as she turned to White again, a smile forming on her lips. "You're in luck, Dead-man. Apparently I'm magic."

"After we landed, we 'enlisted' some of the locals to help build Garrosh'ar point. They resisted, but not hard. Pathetic creatures..." Loka laughed, shaking her head at the memory of that idiot Daelo trying to protest.

"You already had all the tools and machines you needed, and found the raw materials along the way." Archer guessed, filling in the blanks from Loka's story as he went. She'd specifically not mentioned where the task force had been heading, but he was glad they'd ended up here, instead.

Loka sighed again, her gaze straying to her ax once more. "White's an ass, has been from the start. But ever since the first night here, he's changed."

"The Sha?" Archer guessed again.

Loka nodded. "That's what the locals called them. Monstrous things fit for a Dead-man's fantasy. They have no form, use no weapons, and take show no mercy. Honorless wretches, all of them!" Loka spit again, this time into one of the nearby candles. It blew out with a hiss, and Loka chuckled at her own good aim.

"So they attacked Garrosh'ar point, and you lost a lot of men. Found this place soon after, and for some reason, they stopped coming?"

"Oh, we know why they stopped coming!" Loka snapped. "White. From that first night, he said that he'd spend his entire un-life searching for the right monster to beat the Alliance. And now, he's found it."

"The Sha." Archer repeated.

"The Sha. I heard tales about the first Orcs to drink of Mannoroth's blood. I feel like I've seen history repeat itself..." Loka shook her head, looking again to the courtyard below. "White's lost his mind. They're not under his control, it's like he's under theirs."

"And the portal in Garrosh'ar?" Archer pressed, the dots starting to connect.

"Another attempt to make it to our target, abandoned soon after its failure. Then an Alliance gunship appeared on the horizon, and he used the victims of your attack to fuel his retreat, instead. I've never seen anything so... cold... on this world." Loka's voice turned sour at the memory, and Archer almost felt bad for the woman across from him.

"Loka." Archer tried to bring her attention back to the present, a plan forming fast in his mind. "I need to get my people out of those cages. The Pandaren want their children back, before their sacrificed in some demonic ritual. And it sounds like you need to get your own people out before they wind up the same way. We should work together."

Loka took a deep breath, her jaw rolling around as she thought. As if disgusted by the mere thought, she eventually fought the urge to gag and nodded painfully. "Perhaps. Not all of the Dead-men believe in White's fool plan. If I were to call them out, I may have more support than just these idiots." Loka jerked a thumb at the men guarding the door, who didn't seem to mind the insult.

Archer nodded, grabbing one of the cleaner hides and a piece of charcoal from a cook fire. "Good. Here's what I need from you."


	4. The Kypari and the Bamboo

**DISCLAIMER: I do not now, nor have I ever, owned any of the characters or settings in the Blizzard gaming universe. I own only the characters I myself have created. All rights go to Blizzard Entertainment and its affiliates. **

**EDITOR'S NOTE: The characters I have created do not reflect my own personal opinions or beliefs; they are merely constructs useful in the telling of this story. I have not created any character for the purpose of inserting myself or any other individual into the story. They are merely characters. **

Chloe Ward had never seen anything like it.

An entire... island? Continent? Whatever this place was, it was full of people and culture and history, and all of it was completely separate from her own.

Even on the shattered world of Outland, remnants of the Alliance could be found here and there. A fortress, a temple, a group of Dwarves who would fight to the death over a tattered blue banner...

It was all connected.

But here, these people had absolutely no idea what a 'human' was. Only recently had they seen an 'Orc'. It was all so new, that even the most experienced elders of the Pandaren were at a loss to understand what he was seeing.

"Careful with that one; his injuries are mostly internal."

"Of course." Ward nodded to the medic, an older human man with a deep scar running over his left eye. He was no surgeon, but compared to Ward, he might as well have been. Under his care, the wounded were slowly being transported to the safety of the Pandaren village.

As a Priestess of the Light, Chloe was the one that everyone looked to for spiritual guidance, and sometimes for actual miracles. Her power in the Light was stronger than even she knew, and her well practiced Prayer of Mending had indeed saved a few lives...

But now...

She couldn't treat these wounds. Couldn't even identify most of them, actually. That was up to the Corpsman assigned to the Skyfire, and the older man was already nursing a nasty gash on his left arm. Chloe had done what she could for him, but after the effort on the beach, her body and mind were drained.

So the vaunted Priestess of the Light carried a stretcher, wishing desperately to be the hero these people were praying for.

Setting down her burden on an ancient stone bench, she watched curiously as a Pandaren man moved from patient to patient, saying a few words of comfort and running his hand over their wounds. If Chloe watched carefully enough, she could see a faint wisp of greenish-blue mist forming in his hand, or paw as it seemed to be, resting on the bloodied flesh a moment later. He wasn't curing the men and women he touched, but he was soothing their pain noticeably.

"You're a healer." Chloe said bluntly, dodging another stretcher as she moved to join the strange man.

The man stood a full foot taller than her, which wasn't all that unusual considering her own meager height. In weight, on the other hand, he was probably two or three times her size. Yet for all that mass, he was as light on his feet as a faerie dragon, gliding between her people like some kind of angel.

Like Chloe should be...

Hearing her question, the older man shrugged neutrally. "I do what I can for those in pain. It is our way."

"But you can actually do something besides binding wounds." Chloe pressed, nodding to the sailor that the old man had just attended to. His moans had died down, and his jaw was unclenched for the first time since taking the giant deck splinter to his gut.

Again, the old man shrugged. "In time, we learn faster, easier ways to accomplish old tasks. I sense you, too, are no mere bystander?"

Chloe blushed in shame and looked down at her useless, blood covered hands. "I'm low on Mana. Until I recover, I'm worse than a bystander."

"Mana..." The man squinted, trying out the strange word a few times. After a moment, he shook his head dismissively. "No."

Taking her tiny hands in his own massive paws, the man pressed them together before crossing them over her chest. "We all have power inside of us; it cannot be drained or taken away."

Pulling back, he held a rigid paw over the next patient to be brought forward, and a small ball of mist formed between his fingers. Concentrating hard, his eyes closed as he brought his other hand over the first, now gritting his teeth with the effort.

With a sharp cry, he suddenly jabbed down on the oozing gash on the man's chest, the mist whipped out in tendrils to latch onto the Dwarf's skin, pulling the flesh closed and glowing with an eerie light. In a heartbeat, the the Dwarf bolted upright, holding his bloodstained hands over where the wound had been a moment before.

"You... You healed me!" The Dwarf stuttered, his accent coming out as thick as ever.

Wordlessly, the old man nodded and rested a paw on the Dwarf's shoulder. Turning back to Chloe, he let a few white fangs slide out of his lips in a strange smile. "When you master the power that rests within you, all is within reach."

Chloe swallowed hard, looking between the stunned Dwarf and the old man, and finally back down at her own hands.

Her eyes shot back up to the old man with a new sense of purpose.

"Teach me."

Before either of them could say another word, an angry voice stopped the entire village.

"Elder!"

A furious Pandaren woman dressed in black armor stormed into the village, making for Elder Daelo and Corporal Bates in the center of the village. Behind her, a half dozen other Pandaren with unreadable expressions followed closely behind.

"These Alliance have betrayed us, just as the Horde did!" The woman shouted, Maara's spell working overtime to translate the fast, angry words. All eyes followed her as she marched straight up to Daelo.

"Snowlily, peace! What has happened?" Daelo demanded, subtly stepping between his student and the confused Alliance Marine beside him.

"Not only did we fail to rescue the children, but this 'Alliance' soldier spent the entire time drinking tea with his enemy behind closed doors! They never intended to help us!"

Daelo swallowed hard, looking between Snowlily and Sergeant Archer, who was running to catch up with the furious Pandaren woman.

"Sergeant Archer, is this true?" Daelo asked quietly.

Before Archer could answer, Snowlily started on another rant.

"Of course it is true! Or do you doubt me in favor of this stranger?" Snarling in rage, the woman ripped off her mask and wide rimmed hat, tossing them to the ground before pointing a sharp claw in the older man's face.

"I am done waiting for strangers to save us! You have been deceived again, master!"

"Snowlily!" Daelo finally hit the end of his own fuse, and his angry voice boomed through the village. You could have heard a pin hit the cobblestones as both Pandaren caught their breath, and Daelo finally motioned towards the ornate doors behind him.

"We will speak in private."

As the two walked into the shadowy shrine, all eyes went to Archer.

"Well, there's good news and bad news."

Bates almost laughed at the casual nature of Archer's voice, nodding in the direction of the furious Snowlily a second later. "Which part was all of that?"

"The good news, believe it or not." Archer said, a little quieter now. Rogers had heard the commotion and joined the pair, with Ward and Maara appearing soon after.

Bates did his best to ignore the audience, directing his comment to Archer alone.

"Loka?"

"Loka." Archer confirmed. "She was in command of the Horde task force that landed here."

"Was?"

"Was. Turns out we took out most of her loyal troops in the initial attack."

"We couldn't have known." Bates hedged, a twinge of guilt forming as he thought about the lives lost.

"No, we couldn't have." Archer said, his voice a little firmer in his conviction. "And even if we had, we couldn't have done anything differently. Our mission was to kill Horde, and that's what we did. The problem is, now there's a new player. A Forsaken Warlock named 'White'."

"Warlock?" Bates moaned, a few pieces of the puzzle starting to fall together. He'd heard Archer's quick report of the abandoned Orc fortress, and was hoping he was wrong about what the clues meant.

"Warlock. Fel-drunk, by the sound of it. We're talking a Wrathgate level threat here." Archer said the last line as quietly as possible, but Rogers' still managed to hear and partially understand what he was talking about.

"Hold on." Smiling dangerously at Archer, her voice was anything but friendly. "I'm going to ignore the part where a Stormwind Marine is in friendly communication with an Orc grunt, for now. I would like to know, however, what you consider a 'Wrathgate' level threat."

Archer sighed, already dreading the conversations to come. His men knew the story of him and the Orc woman well enough, and had relied on that 'communication' to save lives on both sides in the past. They were his men; they trusted his judgment. Rogers, on the other hand...

But for now, he focused on the problem at hand.

"The Wrathgate was one of the biggest disasters in the Northrend campaign. We lost Bolvar Fordragon, as well as a few hundred good men and women in the process." Bates filled in.

"I know; everyone's heard that story. The Lich King wiped them out." Rogers said confidently, as if this was all common knowledge.

"Here's the part not everyone was told." Archer snapped, his patience wearing thinner as more ears tuned into the conversation. They were making a scene, and he wasn't sure how this was going to end.

"The Lich King wasn't the one who slaughtered our people. That was done by a Forsaken warlock named Putress, who unleashed a demon-made plague on Horde and Alliance alike. He took over the Undercity soon after, and it took everything the Horde had to retake the city. King Wrynn nearly did the job for them, but things went sideways fast." Archer explained.

"That sounds..." Rogers' expression went blank as she shook her head. "Too classified for a Staff Sergeant to know about."

Archer snickered, a little childish pride coming out as he answered her question. "It would be, if I hadn't been there in person. The important thing is, this White character is apparently Putress 2.0. He's got an iron grip on Loka's forces, which are mostly Forsaken, and they've got some of our men caged along with the Pandaren's kids."

"That answers a few questions, and raises a few more." Bates said dryly. "How are we going to get them out?"

"I have the start of a plan." Archer said confidently, drawing another incredulous look from Rogers.

"Are you serious?" The woman gestured around at the wounded masses around them, and then at the weapon that Archer carried.

"You've got all of ten men that aren't wounded or dead, and less than a dozen rounds apiece for ammo! What are you planning on doing, besides waiting for backup?"

"Backup isn't coming." Archer snapped. "We didn't signal our position before entering those mists, and Maara says she can't carve a portal back home anytime soon. We're on our own, and I'm not letting our people rot in that death camp any longer than we have to. We're extracting our people, and soon."

"If you're on such good terms with the green-skin, why don't you just have him let them out?" Rogers challenged, now standing almost nose to nose with Archer.

"Because 'she' only has a half dozen men loyal to her. The rest of the Horde are loyal to White. Almost sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Archer gestured around at the shattered crew of the Skyfire, most of whom wore a Navy uniform. They'd follow Rogers' orders to the last, and they outnumbered Archer's Marines four to one. It would never come to a straight up fight between them, but in the end, Rogers had the backing to challenge Archer any time she wanted. And with the Pandaren's aid, both magical and conventional, her wounds were healing faster than even Archer thought possible. The excuse that she wasn't fit for duty was fading as fast at the daylight around them.

"I'm going to ignore that comment, too." Rogers said politely. "If you have a plan that involves getting our people out with minimal casualties, I'm all ears. But we need to stop and ask, how much damage are we doing to the Pandaren in the process?"

Rogers gestured around at the quiet village, and especially at the curious Pandaren watching the argument go down. They were innocent people in this fight, and all they wanted was their own people back. Archer understood that more than anything else, but at the end of the day, he couldn't deny that this story wouldn't have a happy ending, no matter how perfect his plan was.

And it was far from perfect.

"Your plan has failed, 'Master'!"

Snowlily snarled the words so callously, even she flinched as soon as she'd finished. All of her anger and frustration was venting at once, and she'd lost all ability to stop.

"Sit down, child." Elder Daelo let no emotion creep into his voice as he motioned towards the ring of cushions. They faced an expertly crafted stove, with a slow, lazy fire burning inside as if watching the argument curiously. As Daelo plopped down on one of the silk-trimmed pillows, a few sticks crackled and popped as if getting comfortable themselves.

"Invite the Horde into our village; it is our way!" Snowlily wasted no time in launching into her next rehearsed speech, kicking aside a pillow angrily. "Invite the Alliance into our village, it is our way! And now look! Our children are gone, and the Alliance has no intention of doing anything but taking advantage of your hospitality, and stupidity!"

As she hurled the last insult at her old teacher, the woman kicked another pillow hard enough to send it flying against the wall, spinning on her heel as she did. Facing the darkened window, she dug her claws into the soft wood and tried to catch her breath.

"Are you done?"

The words came so slowly, so softly, that they drained the anger out Snowlily like a tap on a barrel. Her chest suddenly heavy with exhaustion, she turned to face Daelo and sank to the floor, cross legged and crestfallen.

"I'll take that as as yes." For the first time, a hint of anger showed in the old man's voice as he stiffly stood to retrieve the pillows that his student had sent flying.

"How long have you trained with me, Lily?"

Swallowing hard, Snowlily fought to keep her eyes from filling with tears.

"Since my parents died."

"And in that time, how often have I let you go hungry? Even when our harvest was poor?"

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, Snowlily spit out the answer.

"Never."

"And how many times were you left to sleep out in the cold?"

"Never..."

"And how many times have I borne the brunt of your temper, without losing my own in turn?" Daelo asked, carefully replacing the last pillow exactly where it had sat moments before. Glancing up at the young woman illuminated by the fire, she looked almost as young as she had decades before, when she was but an orphaned cub brought to his doorstep. Much had changed since then; yet much was still the same.

"Never." Snowlily swallowed the last of her pride, blinking away a tear as she faced her mentor again.

"Now, will you at least do me the honor of speaking to me as an equal about the matter at hand? Or shall we spar for the right to scream and shout like a drunken Hozen?" Daelo waved a paw to the line of staves resting against the wall, chipped and worn from years of abuse. More than a few of those chips and scratches had come when Snowlily had gone through a rebellious faze, wondering if the old man had gotten soft and feeble yet.

The answer had always been a firm 'no'.

"Forgive me, Master Daelo."

"All is forgiven, my Snowlily." Daelo's voice fell down to the sad, disappointed depths of their normal post-argument routine.

With a new sense of resolve and respect, Snowlily stood and faced the old man with a piercing stare. "But please, Master, you must see that these strangers are nothing but death and destruction!"

Daelo snorted, tossing his shoulder carelessly in the direction of the door. "Of course I see that; I am not as blind as you might think."

Exasperated beyond all measure, Snowlily held up her clenched paws in frustration. "Then why, why are we allowing them entry to our village?"

Daelo sighed, taking a seat again on the comfortable pillow, holding out his two paws in front of him. "Would you like the tiresome parable, filled with valuable lessons," He held up his left hand as he spoke.

"Or the short, quick answer that gets to the point?" Daelo held up his right hand now, and smiled as he saw the glimmer of hope in Snowlily's eyes.

"The short answer, please!"

Daelo snorted a laugh, shaking his head in amazement. "Oh, that is unfortunate. Get comfortable, I like this parable."

Groaning as loud as she dared, Snowlily slumped onto a pillow and rested her chin on one paw, secretly curious as to whether this would be an old story with a new ending, or a new parable altogether.

"Deep in the Valley of the Four Winds, there grew a stalk of Bamboo, and a mighty Kypari tree. Both trees were given much water and sunlight, and the soil was bountiful in all the nutrients and blessings of the ancestor's tilling. Both grew into beautiful saplings."

Snowlily shifted on her pillow, trying to hide her intrigue. This was a new story, after all. She'd never heard of Kypari trees growing in the Valley; most of Daelo's stories took place in an old temple, or maybe a tranquil pond.

"The Kypari tree was proud and boastful of its strength, growing as fast as it could, soon towering over the little Bamboo shoot. Its leaves spread and grew in number, with boughs that shaded the plains from the scorching sun. Thick, rich sap flowed through its veins, and it became the pride and joy of all the Pandaren in the valley. And still, the little Bamboo shoot crept along, growing slowly but surely in the rich soil."

"Then, one day, a Mogu happened upon the valley. He saw the Kypari tree, and all its splendor, and he thought to himself as he beheld it. This tree truly is great, but its greatness has done more than inspire the Pandaren who till these fields. It has attracted Mantid, who crave its sweet sap. And in that same morning, the Mogu took an ax, and cut down the Kypari tree and tossed it to the flame. That night, all that remained was ash and a fond memory."

Snowlily was past pretenses now; Kypari trees, the Valley of the Four Winds, and now Mogu and Mantid? Daelo's stories were never this interesting; he'd never even mentioned the Mogu before. How much had her anger upset him? Or had the Alliance and Horde burdened his thoughts more than she'd realized?

"Meanwhile, the little Bamboo shoot grew and grew, earning no more pride or attention than another blade of grass. Many passed by the spot where it grew, and gave it no thought whatsoever. Eventually, it reached maturity, and spread its seed throughout the land. That Bamboo shoot became the Jade Forest, where we now make our home. Now:" Daelo smiled and rubbed his paws together. "What do you think the lesson of this tale is?"

Snowlily feigned a moment of deep thought, before throwing out her usual respectful, thoughtful answer.

"Mogu are jackasses?"

Daelo frowned and threw a pillow at Snowlily's head, which she easily dodged with a giggle.

"No. The lesson is, the mightiest, grandest, most exquisite trees are cut down for exactly those reasons. Meanwhile Bamboo grows unimpeded, because it is so common and un-threatening. If we are to stand proudly against these strangers and force them out of our lands, they will return in greater number, and remember our pride. What do you think will happen if our peaceful land suddenly becomes the battlefield for a three-way war?"

Snowlily sighed and nodded in acceptance. "We would all perish before we found out."

"Exactly. Or, we can offer assistance in peaceful ways. Learn as much as we can about these strangers, and if necessary, pit them against each other. Our patron Celestial is the Jade Serpent, as I'm sure you remember. She taught us to consider our foes wisely, as the Wind Serpent does. Let our enemy's strength work against itself, while we sit in the shade sipping tea." Daelo reached for a pot and a few cups to make his point, filling them with cool water from a pitcher.

"And betray them, as the Horde betrayed us?" Snowlily asked quietly, careful to leave out any intonation in her question. She was honestly curious; what was Daelo's plan? And how likely was it to work, at the end of the day?

"Not betray." Daelo assured her, placing the kettle onto the glowing stove. "Manipulate, at worst. The Horde kidnapped our people, and if we were to try and extract them ourselves, the loss of life would be..."

Daelo cleared his throat forcefully, blinking twice before continuing. "Unacceptable. But, if the Alliance were to provide a distraction, you and the others would have a far better chance at success."

"And how can the Alliance be a successful distraction if they are half dead?" Snowlily realized, the last piece finally falling into place.

"Exactly. Now, return to this 'Sergeant Archer', and offer him all the assistance you can. But remember:" Daelo stopped suddenly, his piercing stare hitting Snowlily's curious eyes.

"Our people are the priority. Always."

Snowlily rose to her feet, nodding gravely. "Always."


	5. Nightfall

**DISCLAIMER: I do not now, nor have I ever, owned any of the characters or settings in the Blizzard gaming universe. I own only the characters I myself have created. All rights go to Blizzard Entertainment and its affiliates. **

**EDITOR'S NOTE: The characters I have created do not reflect my own personal opinions or beliefs; they are merely constructs useful in the telling of this story. I have not created any character for the purpose of inserting myself or any other individual into the story. They are merely characters.**

As the sun finally set behind the mountains, men and women gathered together around the fountain in the center of Paw'don.

"Alright, listen up; we don't have much time." Sergeant Archer said quickly, looking to each of them in turn.

Snowlily and Daelo stood side by side, their earlier quarrel apparently resolved.

Rogers and Maara were beside them, eyes on Archer with equal measures of skepticism.

Chloe and Bates stood beside them, unflinching in their trust of Archer.

If only Archer could live up to that trust...

"As night falls, Snowlily tells me that these 'Sha' are going to come. That they're drawn to fear, in a sense more magical than instinctual." Archer explained, nodding to the Pandaren woman as he spoke.

"My people have spent centuries practicing meditation and discipline, hoping to drive the Sha'a away entirely. We haven't been totally successful, but the Sha'a now only take a few of our number, and years pass between visits."

"Something tells that me that changes tonight, just like it did for the Horde on the beach." Archer sighed, rolling his shoulders in anticipation. "So, we're going to expect an attack. And use that attack to hit the Horde."

Kneeling down to look closer at the map he'd drawn in the dust, he pointed as he spoke. "Once the Sha'a make their move on Paw'don, I expect the Horde to take notice. We're Marines; we don't fight quietly. And anyone who's able to fight will on the front lines."

Most of the injured and wounded among of the Skyfire's crew were now at least on their feet, and those critically wounded had been stabilized and moved indoors to rest. In time, they would make a full recovery under the Pandaren's nurturing care.

"While all eyes are on the village, Maara, Bates and I will make our way to the Horde fortress under the cover of darkness. Maara's magic will get us close, while Bates and I handle any resistance. Once inside, we free our people and the Pandaren's children. My contact inside will cover our retreat, and we portal back to Paw'don as the sun rises. By morning light, our people will be safe and the Horde will be broken."

"But how?" Snowlily asked, that one detail not clicking into place. "They will have lost nothing."

"They'll have lost their leader, Thomas White." Archer said darkly. The look in his eyes left no room for doubt; he would personally be ending this Warlock's reign of terror.

"One man, against a master of demons and Sha'a alike?" Daelo asked curiously. Not skeptically; just curiously. He honestly expected Archer to have an answer to this, too.

"Not one." Bates spoke up for the first time, taking his place beside Archer with arms folded. "Two."

"If you think I'm just there to open a portal, you're hallucinating." Maara laughed, cocky grin in place. "It's three on one."

"Four. You will have my blade, as well." Snowlily promised, bowing slightly to Archer. "The children will not follow you blindly; you will need me to convince them."

"Four on one, then." Archer conceded. "With Loka working in our favor, we should have a fighting chance. Rogers, Chloe; do you think you can hold the village with Daelo's people?"

Rogers shrugged neutrally. "Not my first rodeo. We'll make it work."

Chloe seemed more sure, smiling at Archer in that way only she could manage. "Count on it, Blake."

With a quick nod, Archer wiped away the map he'd drawn, picking up his rifle with one hand. "Good. Now, as soon as the Sha arrive, we make our move. We'll need to be in and out as quickly as possible. Think you can keep up, Pandaren?" Archer asked, already knowing the answer.

Snowlily inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing at Archer. "I will be waiting on you, Human."

Cutting off any further conversation, Captain Rogers took a deep breath and let loose a rallying shout.

"All hands, form up!"

To the last man, every member of the Skyfire's crew snapped to attention, weapons in hand. Ammunition was low, but there was still enough for the lightly armed Navy sailors to put up one hell of a fight. Combined with Archer's Marines and the Pandaren soldiers, Archer actually felt comfortable leaving them to fight these monsters. After all, the Pandaren had done it for centuries. Their people could do it for a night.

"Alliance, together!" Rogers shouted again, taking her place at the entrance to the small village. The echoing cry came back with no hesitation.

"We fight forever!"

Rifles came up, bayonets were fixed, and lines of defense focused on all of the major entrances to the village, sailors facing the darkened Bamboo bravely.

In between them, the Marines followed suit, filling in the gaps and forming a continuous, albeit thin line around the entire village.

Finally, Snowlily's mysterious men stood in the center of the village, spears drawn and ready, waiting for anyone to call out for reinforcement.

For now, at least, it was an impressive sight. Time would tell what they would find come morning...

"Alright; Maara..." Archer started to call to the Draenei, but a sudden piercing cry cut through the darkness.

Inhuman and un-breathing, the cry lasted far longer than should be possible. Shrill notes bounced through the trees before landing on the ears of those gathered. A chill ran up Archer's spine as he heard it, and Snowlily nodded in acknowledgment.

"Sha'a."

"Maara, now!" Archer hissed.

Standing back to back with rifles ready, Archer, Bates, Snowlily and Maara formed a tight square in the light of a dozen lanterns.

Waving her arms in precise motions, Maara's eyes glowed a fierce purple as she cast the spell. Sparks danced on her finger tips and landed on the dusty cobblestones, forming a spiderweb of arcane energy as they landed. The threads expanded and gathered together again as the teleport took place, sucking them all together through space and time, blinking out of existence in a heartbeat.

With a gasp of cold air, the four were gone.

"Jade Serpent, watch over them..." Daelo sighed, taking up a weapon himself. Twirling the spear expertly in his palm, he spun around at the sound of snapping branches.

There, in the darkness just outside of his village, a creature stood rigidly. It's eyes glowed white, with dripping fangs extending out of an impossibly large mouth. Chest heaving with agony, arms dragging in the damp earth, and all three of its legs digging into the ground, the monster stood, staring at Daelo intently.

The Sha'a had come...

Pacing nervously, Loka watched along the top of the wall as darkness fell on this strange land. No lights appeared in the Mogu fortress; the Dead-men needed none to see. Yet, despite their love of the night, even they seemed on edge as the sun set.

For here, they were not the only monsters who lurked in the shadows...

The first shots rang out through the trees like a fire spreading through kindling. Gunfire, and lots of it. Shouts followed after, and the sounds of battle soon echoed through the forest for miles.

"Sha..." Loka spit, digging her nails into the stone railing.

Silent as a ghost, Thomas White appeared beside her, resting his own decaying hands on the rail as he looked out beside her.

"Sha'a." White agreed, his voice as coarse and grating as usual. Dressed in simple linen robes, he looked like any other Forsaken Warlock, if not for one disturbing trait:

His eyes glowed white.

"The Alliance will fall this night." Loka predicted neutrally.

White nodded, pursing his lips and squinting through the gloom. "Perhaps. Our new friends are already proving their worth, wouldn't you say?"

Loka stood up straighter, her thoughts suddenly far from the battle in the distance. "I have fought besides monsters before, Dead-man. How many of them do you see today?"

Waving around at the courtyard below them, Loka meant to illustrate her point. No demons marched with the Horde tonight; at least none loyal to the Legion.

Instead, her ill-timed gesture brought White's attention to a burst of purple light in the center of the stone courtyard. As it faded, four silhouettes appeared out of thin air, and there was no mistaking what these people were.

"Alliance!" White gasped, his heart trying in vain to beat in his chest. "Men, to arms!"

As one, dozens of Forsaken men and women rushed to where the Alliance stood, only a few hearing White's order.

"Bring me their heads!"

"Please." Loka laughed, turning to face White with cold eyes. "If its blood you want, call an Orc."

Unsheathing her ax, the woman suddenly dove over the edge of the wall, landing on all fours on the courtyard below. Throwing her head back, she let loose a primal shout.

"For the Horde!"

Rushing through the mob of Forsaken, she very nearly beat them to the Alliance, weapon in hand.

It was nearly her last move.

With the flick of her wrist, Maara unleashed a barrage of flame that formed a wall around the four, piercing the darkness in an instant, stopping the Forsaken in their tracks. Sparks danced through the air and stray embers threatened to set fire to the tents they'd arranged in line. As the flames suddenly died down, White was furious to see that the Alliance had vanished, not even a footprint left in their wake.

"Spread out! Find them!"

Rifles cracked and spit fire into the night as bullets tore through the black flesh of the enemy, yet still, they came.

Sha'a poured through the trees, quickly taking the place of their fallen friends. Mouths howling their strange song, they dove for the Alliance line with reckless abandon, claws reaching out towards the men and women.

Every time they came close, another volley of deadly accurate fire cut them down, with Pandaren arrows soon joining the fray. Falling out of the air, the Sha'a's broken bodies landed in the rapidly growing piles, black blood raining through the air.

For a brief moment, it seemed as if the Alliance forces would end the century-long stalemate; the Sha'a were being turned back, and not a drop of blood had been spilled inside the village.

But that hope died in their hearts as the bodies of the fallen Sha'a started to move again, shaking and jerking violently. As the stunned sailors watched, the Sha'a twisted themselves back together, rising again to charge their lines.

"Hold the line! Bayonets forward as soon as the ammo runs out!" Rogers shouted, grabbing a Pandaren made spear and thrusting it over the shoulders of two Dwarves. The ghostly-silver steel tip pierced deep into the nearest Sha'a's chest, driving it down to the ground again. Wrenching the weapon free again, she turned to the next monster racing out of the darkness.

"I'm out!"

"Me too!"

"Bullets are gone!"

Cries rang out as the Skyfire's ammunition finally ran out, and frantic soldiers shifted their grips on their weapons. In one motion, two hundred men and women pulled back and thrusted forward, driving bayonets down the monster's throats. Cries rang out as the first few sailors were raked with black claws, and the injured stumbled backwards towards the village center.

"Pandaren! Forward!" Daelo shouted, seeing gaps form in the Alliance lines with disturbing speed. Pandaren men and women hesitantly stepped forward, spears ready, stabbing into the darkness long enough to allow the Alliance to retreat.

"All hands, fall back!" Rogers ordered, and the sailors quickly obeyed. The entire line took a few steps backward as they fought, contracting the circle of bodies until it had made up for the loss. In a few places, brave Pandaren took up the slack, adding their steel to that of the desperate Alliance.

"In the light, be healed!" Chloe Ward prayed fervently, shedding a ray of light on a Night Elf woman's arm. As the pale light hit the gash, the bleeding stopped and the skin sealed itself again. Grunting a word of thanks, the woman jumped back up and rejoined the fighting.

"Is that all you are good for?"

Ward whirled around at the harsh words, spotting the old man instantly. Shaking his head in condemnation, he twirled a spear around in his hand before launching it with deadly accuracy, taking a raging Sha'a in the head and sending it to the ground before it even touched the Alliance line.

"Stand and fight with your people!"

"I'm a priestess!" Ward shot back, taking another injured man in her arms and muttering a quick prayer. These kinds of spells required little energy, but did little good. Anything more severe than a deep cut would be beyond her power, and the more she exerted herself, the longer it would be before such power returned to her.

"And I am an old man!" The man grinned suddenly, pointing to Chloe accusingly. "Yet still I fight. What is your excuse?"

Chloe swallowed hard.

What _was _her excuse?

Fire.

Fire was simple, easy to understand. It consumed fuel, it gave warmth. It was tool, weapon, and healer all in one. Through decades of practice, Maara Taaln had mastered all of Fire's little habits and quirks; she lent her strength to her will as easily as a bow bending to an archer.

Racing around the outside of the courtyard, Maara couldn't help but grin as she hurled scorching blasts at the shocked defenders, catching their rotting faces each time.

The magic of the blasts sped her on to higher speeds, both hands flinging the blasts as fast as her mind could form them. She wasn't killing them; that would take hours at this pace. But she definitely had their attention, and more and more of the decaying troops were circling around her, laying pathetic traps to try and entangle her.

Fools; didn't they know their prey was a Draenei?

Leaping onto a fallen pile of stone masonry, her powerful legs kicked off like a goat on a hillside, sending her flying over the Forsaken's heads and into the safety of darkness once again. Chancing a more powerful spell, she muttered a few words of power and focused her wrath on a pile of flammable-looking barrels. Sure enough, as the Flamestrike touched down, a shower of sparks and explosions ripped into the air, their gun powder stash now adding to Maara's fireworks.

Letting a long laugh echo into the night, Maara threw another ball of fire into the face of a charging Forsaken, knocking him onto his back and singing away what was left of his lower jaw. Screaming in pain, the man scrambled away as Maara's sharp hooves bit into the stone where he'd lay a second before.

Fire was simple; it had simple goals. And for now, Maara couldn't ask for more.

Dancing through the shadows, Snowlily pushed her body to the limit. Speed; speed was all that mattered.

Sliding on her heels around a corner, she dove behind a crumbling pillar and waited for a few dumbstruck Forsaken to pass by, weapons in hand and stench fouling the air. Choking back her retching, Snowlily dove out into the night once again.

The plan was simple; she'd been over it again and again. Her job was the children; it was simple enough.

But this place was anything but simple...

Finally, she'd reached the cared stone arena where the children were caged. In centuries past, her people had been forced to fight to the death for the Mogu's entertainment; little had they known, those same gladiator's would turn their killer instincts on the laughing Mogu nobles. Now, the Mogu were gone, yet still there were oppressors in this keep.

Glowing green runes formed a circle in the stone, their light shining through the gloom. Hanging in the air was a deadly, razor-sharp barrier of Fel energy. Snowlily had heard of such things from her people's history, but this was the first time she'd seen the Fel in person.

Disgust was the only feeling in her chest.

Just past the Fel light, a dozen children waited, hunkering together in groups. Ranging from five to twelve years, they had been just young enough to capture without resistance, and just old enough to not require any care. What the Forsaken hadn't known was that the Pandaren were no stranger to conflict; they had no intention of ever being slaves again.

When the Horde had first landed, a dozen men and women had been captured and pressed into service building that monstrosity, but the Horde had soon realized that Pandaren would sooner die than work under a whip. So die they did, and the Pandaren learned exactly what kind of enemy they faced. Now, kneeling the darkness surrounded by monsters, these children waited anxiously for rescue.

Twirling her staff over her head, Snowlily gave a quick shout and drove the spear point into the barrier. It was enough force to shatter steel and annihilate glass, yet the barrier stood unbroken. Her spear had bounced off like she'd struck solid stone.

Panic seized her for a moment; the children had noticed her presence, and now the younger ones were calling out to her for help.

Between Snowlily's display and the panicked cries of the children, the guards of the twisted prison were onto her. Twin Fel Hounds leapt out of the darkness, dripping fangs flashing in the pale light as they dove for Snowlily's throat.

On the other side of the fortress, Bates moved with far less speed but a little more confidence. His mission was simpler; open a few cages and rejoin Maara for an evac back to safety. Simple, but not easy.

Slinking around a half wall, he tucked and rolled past a few stray crates, landing along the same wall that the iron cages had been bolted to. Trying not to look directly into the bright flashes of the Mage's distraction, he ran nearly on all fours in the shadow, still managing to slam into a few iron bars after a particularly stunning explosion.

"Corporal Bates? Is that you?" A weary voice called out into the night, and shaky hands grabbed at Bates' as he held onto the cages' bars.

"Damn straight. Stand back!"

Bates pulled the hammer and chisel out of his belt and went to work on the simple lock keeping the doors closed, and with a few good swings, the door popped open.

Unfortunately, the Marines were all kept in separate enclosures, and there were at four more to go. Out of six missing Condor pilots, finding five alive was a miracle in the making, assuming Bates could get them all out.

"Look out!"

Bates barely had time to turn around before a Forsaken saber jammed into the steel bars where his head had been, a snarling footman trying to hack his way through the intruders.

Bates jumped back and landed on his haunches, hammer and chisel still in hand. Dodging another sweeping blow, he managed to plant a boot on the blade's spine and ram his shoulder into the Forsaken man.

Knocking the man back and disarming him, a final blow to the temple with the hammer sent the Forsaken down for the count, and Bates dove for the next cell in line. With the first Marine stumbling shakily out into the darkness, he was only too aware of how much time he didn't have. Eventually, the Forsaken would be on to him, and this would turn into a blood bath.

"What is the matter with you idiots? Stop them!" White screamed, waving a bony arm at a squad of stunned footmen.

At his shout, the men and women shook themselves back to reality and charged towards the pyromaniac, catching a stray fireball for their effort. Jumping out of the way of the blast at the last second, at least one of them was now engulfed in flames and screaming in pain.

"Fools! I have to do everything myself, don't I?" White snarled to no one, raising his hands into the air. Going rigid with concentration, he recited the demonic words to himself until green and purple flames formed between his fingers, and a bolt of shadow and Fel fire flew through the air towards Maara.

The Draenei didn't see it coming until it was too late; she was knocked to the ground and singed from the heat of the blast. As soon as she fell, the flames around the fortress died down as if in fear, and White's men began to circle the fallen Mage.

"That's better! Now, find the others! They couldn't have gone far..."

"Not far at all, actually."

White gasped and spun on his heel as an Alliance saber slammed into the stone rail beside him, his knee-jerk reaction saving his left hand.

Sergeant Blake Archer stood with both hands on the saber's hilt, glaring through the darkness at White.

"Your reign of terror is over, Warlock. Call off your men."

White recovered himself enough to process the man's words, and a cruel laugh echoed out of his throat. "Really? Just like that? I have a better idea."

With the mere flick of his wrist, White sent a spike of agony through Archer's hands, and he dropped the saber as if it were red hot. Biting back a scream, he wrung his hands together to get the feeling back in them, sweating bullets as he did.

White, meanwhile, grabbed the sword in one hand, admiring it in the low light.

"Not bad; I might keep this. Anything else of value you'd like to donate today, human? I'm in the market for a new set of eyes!"

Archer looked up in shock as White advanced on him again, purple and green fire dancing across his fingers.

"Fall back! We can't hold them!"

Rogers wrenched the spear free once again, only to have the shaft snapped in half by a pair of black claws. Stumbling back into the darkness, she scrambled out of the way of the Sha'a as it shambled through their lines.

Paw'don was falling.

Men and women were running for cover as the Sha'a advanced, with the injured piling up left and right. What healers there were couldn't keep up, and as the night pressed in, fear was running like blood on the pavers. Staring into the gaping maw of the nearest Sha'a, Rogers couldn't blame her men for their terror.

It was like these things were fear incarnate; like every nightmare, every noise in the dark, every hair raising experience she'd ever been through rolled into one monster. Worse, they weren't killing her men physically; their powers reached into the minds of the Skyfire's men like a thief into a child's pocket.

"Caroline! Run!"

Rogers jerked her head back as she heard the familiar call, her mind tripping over itself as it recognized that woman's voice.

"Mom?" Rogers whispered, staring into the glowing white eyes of the Sha'a.

It was the monster, the one that had attacked them all night. But it was also that Forsaken, the one who'd marched down her street. The one who'd dragged her mother out of the Inn where they'd made their final stand.

The one who'd slit her throat while Caroline watched from the harbor, screaming in pain and fear as the desperate refugees fled the doomed town.

Fighting the obvious illusion, Rogers rolled to her feet and whipped the broken spear shaft around, cracking the Sha'a in the forehead and sending it to the ground again.

"Fight on! Don't these things get into your head!" Rogers shouted.

But it was too late.

Their line was gone, the village was swarming with Sha'a, and now, the overwhelmed weren't being slaughtered. They were being dragged away, towards the edge of the village. Stone-faced and wide eyed, fearless soldiers were being led away like lambs to the slaughter, with those inhuman howls still rending the cool night air.

"No! Stop!" Rogers screamed herself hoarse, chasing after a Sha'a as it dragged off another woman. "Stop..."

But it wouldn't stop. Just like that Forsaken didn't stop at her mother. It kept going, dragging out more and more people from that Inn, knowing that Caroline was watching from the harbor. Knowing that they were innocent...

They wouldn't stop...

Rogers sank to her knees, tears in her eyes, darkness closing in on her mind.

It was over...

Closing her eyes, the last traces of light...

Grew stronger...

"Enough!"

One voice, one light in the darkness, rang out for all to hear. Chloe Ward stood in the center of the village, hand in the air, eyes burning with a Holy fire.

"_Obicente Sancticum! _Light, grant us strength!"

From the palm of her bloodied hand, a light began to shine, stretching up into the stars and wiping away the mists of the night. Like the sun itself rising from the horizon, the light spread, wrapping around the village and all of their people.

A dome formed, with bolts of white light exploding out at the Sha'a left and right, obliterating them into piles of dust, not even a drop of black blood left in their wake. Brighter than a thousand suns that light spread, wiping away the blood of the fallen and the shambling monsters alike, until the entire sky seemed to turn to day.

"_Obicente Sancticum! _Light, claim your chosen! Banish the darkness from whence it came!"

Her voice echoing through all of their minds, Chloe advanced on the Sha'a now, her hands still raised into the sky, sending Holy light out in spiraling bolts. Eyes burning and hair blowing in the invisible wind, she walked on, sending the Sha'a running in fear.

"What the..." Rogers shook her head to clear her vision, shakily climbing to her feet as she watched.

The Sha'a were beaten.

Howling now in terror, the monsters fled into the forest, not looking back for even a moment. Only when the last traces of shadow had been banished to the trees did Chloe lower her hands, panting from the effort. Sweat glistened on her skin, and her robes clung tightly to her shaking frame.

She'd done it...

Turning to look behind her, Chloe saw the old man one last time, standing there in the shining light of the Holy Barrier. Smiling in that strange way, she watched him burst into green light before fading away again, as if he'd never been there in the first place.

"Wait!" Chloe stumbled towards the spot where he'd stood, searching all around as if he'd merely stepped into the shadows.

"Chloe! You..." Rogers ran to the girl, taking her by the shoulders with eyes wide. "You did it!"

"Where'd he go? The old man, you have to help me find him!" Chloe begged, ripping herself free to continue the search.

Rogers raised an eyebrow, taking the girl by the arm again.

"Chloe... There was no one there."

Thomas White's spell was cut short as a flash of blinding white light hit his eyes, making him blink and squint in pain. Holding up a clawed hand to the light, he didn't notice Archer roll into the darkness again. The agony was gone as soon as White's focus was broken, the only side effect a tingling feeling in Archer's hands.

Launching himself off of the railing, Archer tackled the Forsaken to the ground and rolled him into a headlock, his elbow tightening on White's throat as tightly as he could.

"That would have worked..." White gasped. "If I still needed to breathe!"

Elbowing Archer in the ribs, White rolled free and clawed at his throat, the line only half true. Breathing was optional; having your neck vertebrae twisted apart was not.

Archer jumped to his feet again, grabbing the fallen blade in one hand and twirling it expertly around his palm. Leveling the blade at White, he lunged at the Warlock as hard as he could.

White dodged it easily, grabbing Archer by the throat and pinning him to the rail instead. Pinning one arm behind his back with inhuman strength, White cackled in delight.

"Idiot! The Sha'a have made me stronger than ever before! Not that I needed them to end a pathetic little knight like you..."

As Archer was forced to watch, the activity in the courtyard below came to a sickening halt. Maara, bound and gagged, was dragged forward by a pair of Forsaken footmen, blades to her throat.

Bates and his rescued Marines were next, wrapped in chains and badly beaten. They fought hard against their captors, but it was no use. They'd been outnumbered and outgunned.

Finally, Snowlily was brought forward, singed and smoking from Fel fire. Blood ran down her black armor, and her spear was broken in pieces in the hands of her Forsaken captors. One woman in particular held her by the arm, throwing her to the ground in the center of another glowing green ring. The ritual that the Forsaken Warlocks had been working on earlier in the day seemed to be complete; power emanated from it in waves.

"It's over!" White laughed, forcing Archer to watch as Loka came forward, ax in hand, eyes cold as stone.

Raising the blade over her head, Archer could only watch in horror as the Orc glared down at him, her face unreadable.

As the blade came down with a savage 'thunk', Archer gasped in surprise.

White's head slid off of his shoulders, rolling down to the stone below.

"For the True Horde!" Loka shouted, raising her ax high into the air. "We will be slaves never more!"

Ten Orcs dove out of the shadows, axes in hand as they charged the Forsaken holding Archer's men. Slamming into them like charging bulls, the Forsaken were tossed aside by the Orc Grunts, and the Marines scrambled to free themselves.

"The traitor!"

One voice alone rang out in the darkness, and all eyes turned to see who had spoken.

The Forsaken woman who held Snowlily suddenly stepped forward, hatred in her eyes. Pointing up at the wall where Loka stood, they could feel the passion in her voice.

"...Is dead!"

As one, the Forsaken lowered their weapons and stepped away from the captives, hands in the air and heads down.

Bates, Maara, and Snowlily watched in wonder as the enemy retreated, turning to Archer a moment later.

But it was Loka who spoke again, shouting for all to hear. "With White dead, the Sha will return in number! Take up your weapons, the battle isn't over yet!"

"Yes, it is." Archer corrected, pointing into the forest beyond.

As they watched, the barrier of light burned on, surrounding the Pandaren village entirely. Sha'a of all shape and size shambled away in terror, knocking down trees in their panicked flight. Like cockroaches in the torch light, the enemy had scattered, and Paw'don was safe again.

"Maara! We need a portal, now!" Archer shouted, sheathing his weapon as he hopped over the stone rail.

"I don't know if I can!" Maara moaned, gasping and holding up her weary hands. The battle had taken a lot out of her, and being beaten over the head a few times hadn't helped that situation. Struggling to focus, she was soon joined by a stranger.

"Let me help."

A Forsaken man, his jaw hanging uselessly by a few tendons, stepped forward with his own hands in the air. Speaking a few Arcane words of his own, he lent his power to the the struggling Draenei, and a ring of sparks formed in mid-air. On the other side, bright light poured through the portal's opening.

"Everyone, through the portal!" Loka shouted, diving over the rail after Archer. Landing heavily, she and the human grabbed people and shoved them forward as they went. Slowly, the mass of Horde and Alliance alike started to move towards the ring of light.

"What about the Sha?" Bates asked, fighting his way through the mob to Archer's side.

The Forsaken woman standing beside Snowlily spoke up again, grim determination in her voice. "Let us handle that."

Turning to the ring of Fel energy, she planted a withered palm on one of the runes, muttering demonic runes in a low voice. As they watched, the pent up energy started to coalesce, forming a burning flame in the center of the ring.

"We should leave before that goes off." The woman suggested mildly, a mischievous smile forming on her black lips.

"The children!" Snowlily started to run for the other courtyard, but the woman stopped her with a wave of her hand.

"Free, and on their way!"

Sure enough, the ring that had surrounded the Pandaren youths had disappeared, and the terrified kids came running towards Snowlily's voice.

"Go go go!" Archer found himself shouting it for the second time that day as Humans and Orcs alike raced towards the portal, vanishing into the light soon after. The courtyard was emptying, but not fast enough.

Sha'a were already gathering at the walls, and the heavy gate the Forsaken had erected was shuddering under the weight of black fists. Howls and screams tore through the night, their earlier fear forgotten.

Maara saw all of this, a burning thought forming in her mind.

The portal needed to be bigger.

At it's current diameter, only one or two could pass through at a time. At this pace, they would be slaughtered before half of them made it through to safety.

But what if...

Screaming in pain and rage, Maara stretched her hands farther apart, and the portal's aperture started to widen. As the Mana flowed out of Maara's body, side effects began to show. The faint shimmer that always danced around her beautiful face started to crack, with lines of Arcane energy forming like a spiderweb. Worse, the purple sparks dancing around the edge of the portal rippled and pulsed not just with purple light, but with flecks of green...

But it was done. Now, the portal was wide enough to see Rogers and Chloe on the other side, the other Skyfire sailors watching in stunned silence as Bates dove through, side by side with a Forsaken footman.

"Thanks, by the way!" Archer shouted, hoping Loka would hear him over the chaos.

"For?" Loka asked, feigning ignorance.

Archer grinned and nodded to the ledge above them. "Saving my life. Again."

"Funny, how you always seem to need saving!" Loka laughed, elbowing Archer hard in the ribs.

At last, the last of those in the dark courtyard made for the portal, the Sha'a breaking through the gate a little more with every second.

Loka, the Forsaken mage, and Snowlily dove through, with Archer and Maara left behind in the darkness.

"Go! I'll hold it open for you!" Maara screamed, now holding one hand to her face. Even in the shadows, Archer could see something was different.

"Together!" Archer ordered, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the open portal.

"Let me go, you stupid mortal!" Maara jerked away, and for a split second, rage overshadowed her. Glaring at Archer through glowing purple eyes, the Draenei woman changed from the playful, pretty rebel into a monster from Archer's worst nightmare.

Swallowing the fear forming in his stomach, Archer grabbed Maara's hand again, pulling her all the way through the portal this time. Just as before, the second her hooves touched the ground on the other side, the portal snapped closed.

With a burst of clean air and bright light, Archer was back in Paw'don, surrounded by the Skyfire's people, and now, a few others as well.

Climbing to his feet, her looked around at the various faces staring back at him, taking a deep breath and letting the idea set into his exhausted mind.

It was over.


End file.
